The Saovine Convoy
by DiamondTopaz
Summary: Set after Iorveth's Path/Free Saskia ending. The Pontar Valley is overpopulated with refugees, and winter is near. To provide for everyone, a convoy led by Saskia and Iorveth journeys over perilous mountains to trade ore for food. Monsters and enemies await at every turn. Can the group work together to survive, and will Iorveth admit his true feelings for the Dragonslayer?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_Just a few minutes' rest. That's all I need, then Vergen awaits._

Saskia clutched the scarlet red wound on her chest where she'd been pierced by a jagged branch a few hours ago. She leaned against one of the trees surrounding Loc Muinne and eased herself into a sitting position upon its base. The ancient city was barely a speck in the distance now, but she found herself steering her gaze towards it. She could still make out the smoke overhead—a beacon of her final act of ardent loyalty to Philippa Eilhart.

_Philippa_. The dragoness clenched her teeth. She detested the very thought of the sorceress who had commandeered her own will—who had used her for the nefarious purposes now smoldering in Loc Muinne…and gods only knew what others slated to follow. Since Philippa had first arrived in Vergen, Saskia had caught wind of dwarven grumblings that the sorceress couldn't be trusted, but she had hand-waved them away then. After all, they were hardly the _only_ traces of distrust among the diverse rebellion.

The worst part was that, even under Philippa's influence, her will had still seemed her own. She'd deliberately charred the armed men who came to apprehend Síle de Tansarville at the peace summit, and she'd made every feral strike and snap against Geralt of Rivia intending to end his breath. She'd hated what Philippa wished her to hate…even those she'd come to trust.

_But never again_, she promised herself. She had seen the dark colors that painted the hearts of those who cast spells, and she would never allow herself to become accessory to their schemes again.

"The smell…" a woman's voice lamented not far off. "I can still smell them burning." Whoever the speaker was, she was getting closer and she sounded nearly delirious. "The smell…I can never forget that smell…"

Saskia planted an instinctive firm grip on her sword hilt. "Who goes?!" she called.

"It's only us," responded a coarse male voice. Him, she recognized.

"Saskia? Where are you?" added a third, drawling voice. Him, too.

She released her sword. "Right here."

Three sets of footsteps approached from around the tree. Iorveth greeted her first. He saw the grave injury adorning her chest then glanced back tensely at Geralt, who joined him a few seconds later. The witcher had his arm around a downcast red-haired woman Saskia didn't know.

"If only I could have been there…" the redhead murmured.

Geralt consoled her. "You couldn't have known, Triss."

Meanwhile, Iorveth moved to Saskia's side. "Geralt told me everything," he said quietly. "How do you fare?"

"I'll manage." She rubbed her chest and looked over at the woman called Triss. "Who is she?"

"The sorceress Geralt came to Aedirn to find," he replied. Saskia set her lips in a fine line by the word _sorceress._

"If I'd been at the peace summit, I could have said something…done something…" Triss continued.

"Nilfgaard was behind it all," Geralt reasoned. "I doubt they would have let you just walk out of their camp."

"If what you said before is true, Geralt, then Nilfgaard means to raze the whole of the Upper Kingdoms," Saskia cut in abruptly. "I must make haste back to Vergen if we're to have a chance of defending Upper Aedirn." She gazed pointedly at Triss. "And I'm sure, in light of these events, you two have business of your own to attend." She began attempting to slide herself up the trunk of the tree into a standing position, with some effort.

Triss lifted her head forlornly. "Um…but you couldn't possibly make it all the way back to Vergen in your condition," she protested. "At least…at least let me look at your wound. I think I can help."

"That won't be necessary, thank you."

"Saskia." Geralt's placid voice brought her attention back to him. "It's alright," he said knowingly. "You can trust her."

Before Saskia could object, Triss knelt in front of her and inspected the injury, her hands still unsteady. "Gods…no wonder they call you Dragonslayer," she commented. "This wound could kill a troll, let alone an average human."

The dragoness looked at Geralt from the corner of her eye, silently asking, _"She doesn't know?" _Geralt must have understood, for he shook his head.

"I know a spell that can speed up the body's ability to heal itself. It'll also reduce any…disfiguring scars," Triss explained.

Saskia's body could _already _rapidly heal itself, and one of the benefits of the Polymorph illusion she donned was that her human guise never retained its scars. But she opted not to tell this sorceress either of these facts.

"The spell causes discomfort, though," Triss continued. "You'll have to hold still until it's done."

Saskia looked at her. "You spoke of the smell of burning," she said. "Did you mean the…events at the peace summit?"

"No." Triss shook her head slowly. "I meant the slaughter of every mage in Loc Muinne _after _the peace summit."

"What?"

"I've never seen such a bloodbath…not even in Rivia," she murmured. "When it got out that sorceresses had a hand in the kingslayings, the armies turned on all who practiced magic in the city. Even street vendors who never had dealings in politics were seen as threats."

A ragged sigh, a haunted gaze into space, and Triss went on.

"In just hours, Loc Muinne became a tomb for mages. Impalements, burnings, crucifixions…I even saw several corpses with their hands cut off so they couldn't cast spells. Why did they bother…? The magic barrier was still in place, so the mages couldn't have protected themselves, anyway. They never had a chance."

Saskia grimaced at the sordid tale Triss wove. "And all while those responsible get away clean…" she murmured.

"Not entirely," Iorveth remarked.

"It's only a matter of time before the remaining, responsible few are found," Geralt added. "Then there will be justice."

"But at what cost?" brooded Triss. "All mages should not have had to answer for the deeds of Philippa and her lot."

Saskia lowered her eyes to the ground at these words.

"…Go on," she urged the redheaded mage. "Cast your healing spell. I am ready."

Triss assumed her spellcasting stance, arms raised. An aura gathered at her fingertips, the gradually grew into a radiant ball of energy. She directed it over Saskia's chest, and like a lightning bolt it coursed into her. Also like a lightning bolt, an intense shock followed. Saskia winced, but recalled Triss' instruction not to move. She tensed, and waited for the spell to conclude.

All at once the sensation stopped. Saskia noticed the wound had been reduced to a scratch no more serious than one from a thorn bush—an effect that would have taken several more hours on its own, even with her dragon nature.

She was relieved, also, to feel no sudden increase of deep devotion to the caster. "My thanks," she said, and stood up straight once more.

Triss gave a weak smile. "The free Pontar Valley will need its leader now more than ever."

Saskia nodded. "We'll start preparing for our Nilfgaardian aggressors at once."

"It's not just the Nilfgaardians you'll have to worry about now," Geralt said. "The carnage we saw today isn't likely to end in Loc Muinne. Magic folk all over the realm will be targets. I wouldn't be surprised if Vergen becomes a haven for refugee sorceresses."

_"Bloede cáerme," _muttered Iorveth. "A score more Eilharts passing through Mahakam Gates? Exactly what we need."

Saskia glanced aside unsurely.

"…But how can we call Vergen free if we turn them away for what Philippa and those like her have done?" she finally posed. "Mages or no, they're soon to be outcasts with nowhere else to go."

"Not all sorceresses are like Philippa," Triss offered. "If Vergen is the only place they have to call home, then most would defend it in the trying times ahead."

"All the more reason to be on our way, then," said Saskia. "I presume this is where we part?"

"Mhm," Geralt assented. "Triss' and my goals lead us elsewhere."

"Good luck in them," bade Saskia. "May we meet again in brighter times."

"I'm sure we will," said Geralt.

"If only there were any certainty that brighter times lay ahead," Iorveth mused.

"Yes," agreed a morose Triss. "If only."

Thus, the witcher and sorceress departed. As though joined at the hip, they shrank into the distance until the forested horizon claimed them. Iorveth and Saskia stood, unspeaking, for a few brief moments. Finally, the elven bandit broke the silence.

"So the dagger worked, after all," he said. "I feared another of the witch's foul tricks when she claimed it must pierce the heart."

"That _would _have been a trick, then," said Saskia. "Geralt only laid it upon my head, and my fascination with Eilhart faded away, as though the figment of a dream."

"I knew it. That bitch…" Iorveth quavered with suppressed fury, clenching his teeth and tightening his fists. "If I ever see her again, I'll—"

"And believe me, I wouldn't stand in your way," Saskia interrupted. "But we mustn't seek her out. I shared her will long enough to believe she expects just that."

He allowed his anger to slacken at her words. "Then, Vergen awaits," he declared. "If you intend to fly there, I shall see you in a week's time."

After waiting for a reply and receiving none, he took a few slow, reluctant paces in the town's direction. She watched his retreating back, mired in her thoughts.

When the enchanted dagger had been pressed against her forehead and her senses regained, Geralt had admitted to her he hadn't acted alone in breaking the spell. The sole reason Iorveth had left his Scoia'tael units to their revelry in the newly liberated Vergen and journeyed to Loc Muinne was to see her rid of Philippa's hex. Had Saskia been told before that her sorceress advisor would betray and use her, and that it would be the Upper Kingdoms' most notorious and lethal brigand who strove to aid her, she'd have been skeptical at best.

Then Geralt had struck a more personal chord and suggested Iorveth's reasons for helping her weren't purely objective. _"He'd do anything for you," _the witcher had claimed. _"What are you prepared to do for him?"_

At the time, she had cited an interest in dwarves as a means to change the subject. It wasn't untrue; the hearty and stout way the dwarven people had about them indeed appealed to her. Among their many traits, they made commendable warriors, rousing tavern companions, and honest citizens.

Regardless, she was aware of the wistful glances Iorveth cast at her when he thought she wasn't looking. In spite of the decades' worth of human blood tainting his hands, she couldn't fail to acknowledge the expression of sincere relief he wore just now upon their reuniting, nor his obvious desire to speak with her a few moments longer. Only now did she realize that since Vergen took up arms, she'd barely exchanged words at all with the one who first made her "The Dragonslayer."

She could oblige him that, at least.

"Wait," she called to Iorveth, following after him. "Perhaps I should walk, too," she said. "There are armies still nearby who recognize my true self as a tool of the sorceresses' bidding."

He nearly smiled as he waited for her to catch up, and they strode side by side, bound for the dwarven town.

"Eilhart made you a tool of her bidding," he spoke up, "only because you were at your most vulnerable. If more sorceresses do come, we'll proceed cautiously to ensure it doesn't happen again."

"That is wisest," she agreed. "One thing is certain: there will be no more advisors. Philippa Eilhart's post is to remain vacant; from now on, it's the people I look to first."

"Just as the people look to you."

As they ventured on wordlessly, she was aware of his frequent glimpses towards her. He tried to remain subtle, but the disfigurement concealed beneath his bandana hindered his peripheral vision, meaning he had to turn almost completely towards her. There was something on his mind, and with a long hike ahead, she elected to address it.

"Geralt told me of your role in dispelling the curse," she said. "I had no doubts of your devotion to the free Pontar Valley. But for your devotion to _me_, I am...grateful."

He faced her. "Without you, there'd_ be_ no free Pontar Valley." A pause. "…Did the witcher say anything more?"

She shook her head. "…Nothing of import."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

One month after the massacre in Loc Muinne, Iorveth surveyed the crowded Rhundurin Square in Vergen. Saskia had called a rally to discuss an important issue, and she now stood at the center of the marketplace with a multitude surrounding her.

Gwynbleidd's prediction had been right: since the bloodbath following the peace summit, the dwarven town saw a surge in not only nonhuman population but spellcasters as well. The wayfarers poured in from across the realm, each with tearful stories to tell of cruelties against their ilk back in their hometowns. Fortunately, Merigold has also been correct—the refugee sorceresses knew Vergen was their only safe haven for now, so they stilled any ill intent they meant before.

The citizens had been disheartened at first to learn of the Nilfgaardian invasion. Victory against Henselt had seemed a miracle—to fend off the Empire would require divine intervention. Yet the days turned to weeks, and there was still no sign of White Sun emblems on the horizon. No one was sure why. First there was unrest, then cautious optimism. Dwarven women and children even started to walk the streets freely again—a sure sign of peacetime. The people dared to believe, in spite of turmoil outside their borders, that the future of Vergen looked encouraging.

"People of Vergen," Saskia addressed the crowd. Her authoritative voice commanded their attention. "I thank you for making attendance."

She'd kept her word and addressed the public on every major issue, putting each decision to a vote and acting in the best interest of all her citizens. Iorveth marveled at how gravely wrong Philippa had been about her: there was no one better suited to lead a realm of elves and humans than she, who was neither. Who was greater.

"What I have to say is a vital issue that concerns us all," she announced. "As of late, Vergen had become home to the downtrodden from all over the Northern Kingdoms."

'Home' was not the term Iorveth would apply to Vergen, in spite of being vagrant for over a century before settling here. As he looked over the town, overrun as it now was, it looked much more like a refugee camp than anyone's home.

"I'm sure all of you wish as much as I do for this place to remain the harbinger of equality it was when first we defeated Henselt," Saskia presumed.

Her success in establishing a land without prejudice was unprecedented. But as she spoke to the crowd even now, they sat in segregated sections of the market square. The dwarves occupied the seats to the right of her pedestal, while the human peasantry took the left with the nobles directly behind them. The sorceresses gathered near the back, just adjacent to the resident elves. Iorveth and his Scoia'tael clung to the fringes. "Harbinger of equality" was an aspiration that still remained just out of reach, even under Saskia's fair reign.

"But in order for this to happen, something must be done about the shortages we now face." Saskia's voice grew grim. "Vergen's population has risen a staggering twofold in the past month. Winter looms, and we simply haven't the resources to feed and shelter everyone until spring."

This prompted murmurs.

"You all understand how grave this is. Just as resources are scarce, so too are allies to turn to for aid. There are those in Kaedwen, Redania and mainland Aedirn who'd revel to see us starved out and primed for the taking. And underlying all of this, war with Nilfgaard rages on across all the kingdoms."

The murmurs grew louder with this revelation.

"So," Saskia posed, "what do we do?"

The question brought an abrupt silence over the assembly.

"…Bollocks, Saskia. Yer askin' _us_, are ye?" grunted Zoltan Chivay from the section where the dwarves were seated.

"This decision affects everyone," she replied. "So everyone has a say. I put it to all of you. How will we survive the winter?"

A few in the assembly scratched their heads.

"We…er…well, we got us a right lot of sorceresses around here, don't we?" a human peasant ventured. He had a strong build and ginger hair ending in mutton chops. "Ain't there some sorta magic spell can, I dunno, just make food appear outta thin air, suchlike?"

"Oi! Let's not start countin' on magic to cure all our ills!" protested a she-dwarf.

"The spell you're thinking of is illusionary anyway," added a sorceress. "You'll dine like a king, but you'll just be hungry again within the hour."

"Oh. Guess that's right out, then, isn't it?"

"It seems we're all forgetting about a little pastime I like to call 'hunting'," said a nobleman sporting a courtier hat with peacock plumage. His rosy-cheeked expression indicated he was one who was used to getting his way. "I'd wager our elves have been itching for another chance to use their bows since the Siege of Vergen ended."

"Use them on what?" a dark-haired, female Scoia'tael shot back. "The scores of wild game that roam Upper Aedirn from now until spring?"

"Well, then. If our local elves feel their part had been sufficiently played, then what of the elves of Dol Blathanna?" suggested the nobleman. "Surely they'll have an abundant enough harvest to consider bartering with us."

"Out of the question," spat Iorveth. "Findabair and her subjects are nothing more than Nilfgaardian pawns."

"But should we still be worried about Nilfgaard?" asked another peasant.

"Bite yer tongue, lad!" Sheldon Skaggs growled. "We should _always _be worried about Nilfgaard, and what those cocksuckers down south might be tryin' next!"

"They ain't tried nothin' yet," the peasant remarked. "They may be ploughin' the rest of the North at present, but they ain't even marched on us."

"Aye, and if I was you, that'd worry me most of all," Sheldon replied. "I'd gladly take an axe to any Nilfgaardian prick what showed his face here. But what's stoppin' 'em?"

"That much is obvious." The noble lady cast her gaze towards the sorceresses. "It only took one sorceress to reduce the nearby field to ashes three years past. We house a score of spellcasters. That's why Nilfgaard won't cross us."

"Not likely," cut in an elven woman. "The southern _d'yaebl _has sorceresses of his own, after all."

"Or it may be," Saskia spoke over all the others, "that the Emperor bides his time, content to allow the winter to weaken us, then come spring he'll pluck our fertile region out from under us. Whatever Nilfgaard intends, it won't matter when or how we're struck if we don't see to providing for ourselves first."

"We may be short on food and shelter," Cecil Burdon chimed in. "But there's one thing we've got that no one else has. We sit on top of a fat vein of iron no one this side of the Yaruga can compare to. Surely there's someone out there who's willing to trade for what we got."

Quiet affirmations rippled through the crowd.

"Our alderman's onto something there," said Yarpen Zigrin. "Now, who can we trade our ore with?"

"Temeria?" suggested the ginger-haired peasant.

"Not current in our politics, are we?" sneered the nobleman in plumage. "There is no more Temeria. It's been split into Redanian and Kaedweni territories."

"Forget about Kaedwen. That fat-arse Henselt ain't likely to be doin' us any favors any time soon," speculated Sheldon.

"But Redania?" asked a noble lady in the crowd.

"Radovid was at the forefront of the slaughter of mages in Loc Muinne, assisted by the Knights of the Flaming Rose!" exclaimed a voice from the sorceresses' section.

"Never mind our current standing in the eyes of Aedirn."

Iorveth leaned against a stone wall, the persistent voices of the debaters merging into a sort of white noise to his ear. This always happened at any deliberation with humans in attendance. They'd argue with the nonhumans, then proceed to argue amongst themselves. They'd let their base emotions steer their actions and speech, and in the end all that resulted was an eruption of mayhem which Saskia must then effectively dispel.

He and his Scoia'tael were the least concerned of all at the thought of a harsh winter. It wouldn't be the first time they faced starving or freezing (the _dh'oine _had been seeing to that for years) and they certainly had no delusions it would be the last time. Yet, they weren't the only ones at stake now. There was the rest of Saskia's vastly growing subjects to consider…including those now on the way.

He passed his gaze over the young elven women, both of his commando and amongst the citizens. Though lacking for places to be alone in the densely populated city, young Aen Seidhe couples had been frequently seen sneaking off together in whatever private corners they could find ever since the celebration of victory over Henselt. Already, some of the women were hiding radiant smiles and absentmindedly rubbing their bellies, hinting at the secrets they carried. The idea of elven children soon to be born was a much welcome ray of hope for the declining people. For their sake, all that could be done to survive the coming winter, must be.

"So, we can't turn to Temeria. Not Kaedwen, Redania or Aedirn, either…and _of course_, not Dol Blathanna," summarized the nobleman, with a pointed glare towards Iorveth at the end. "So, what allies are we left with, then?"

This was met with more silence.

"Saskia. What of the Hengfors League?" Iorveth spoke up. A few heads turned.

"The Hengfors League?" Saskia repeated. "That's a long way from here. Why such a distant place?"

"The western neighbor of Hengfors—Kovir and Povis—stayed neutral in previous clashes with Nilfgaard," he recalled. "But Kovir is home to mineral exports superior even to those here. The Emperor will surely covet control of them sooner or later, but in order to get to them, he'll need to pass through Hengfors. By trading with them, we'll get what we require and they can make use of our goods to mount a defense."

Saskia pursed her lips in thought. "Cecil, fetch a regional map," she instructed.

"Right away." The alderman broke apart from the crowd.

"Our Squirrel 'friend' would have a sound plan," said the nobleman. "Except for one thing. How are we to get to Hengfors? I know my geography; there are no land paths to the place except through Redania."

Iorveth glanced at Saskia. Unbeknownst to most of the assembly, she could make such a journey on swift wings. But to appease the human crowd, an alternative was needed. "We traverse the Kestrel Mountains," he suggested. By this point, Cecil returned with a map, which Saskia inspected while Iorveth continued. "The range makes up the border of Redania and Kaedwen. By forging up the middle, we'd avoid too much attention from either side."

"Shite. It's crazier than anything ever come out of an elf's mouth, but could work," said Yarpen. "Both sides will be too preoccupied with their stands against Nilfgaard to mind a lone convoy of miners and traders heading along a mountain path."

"But scaling mountains in winter? Bloody hell, that's suicide!" exclaimed the ginger-haired peasant. "We'd freeze to death before we even got there!"

The female Scoia'tael scoffed. "The Aen Seidhe have managed it ever since you humans came here."

"Be that as it may…Lady Saskia, are we truly going to stake everything on the whims of these Squirrels?" asked the nobleman. "A tenuous alliance against Kaedwen was one thing. But to readily let them lead us to our deaths in the mountains?"

"The Scoia'tael won't be leading this expedition," Saskia declared. "I will."

A few collective gasps resounded. She turned the map to the crowd and traced Iorveth's proposed route with her fingertip.

"I'll choose a party from volunteers to accompany me north through the Kestrel Mountains to the Hengfors League," she explained. "We'll have the highest quality mineral ore from our mines in tow, for which we will find a buyer at our destination. The League will have need of it to defend against Nilfgaard, so they should be willing to exchange it for food. Our goods traded, we'll return to Vergen the way we came."

"Milady, forgive my candor, but that's much too risky," objected the nobleman. "What if the worst happens? Or what if Nilfgaard attacks here while you're gone?"

"We could teleport," suggested a soft, demure voice. It seemed to come from a temperate and apprehensive young woman. This is what made it strange that it issued from the sorceresses' section. A lone sorceress lifted her head. She had platinum blonde hair and wore a red and brown plaid gown. "I can join this convoy, and should Nilfgaard march on Upper Aedirn, then I will teleport us back home to protect it."

"Here we are again—putting all our eggs in the magic basket," grumbled the she-dwarf. "Why didn't she opt to teleport to the Hengfors League in the first place?"

"I don't have a piece of Hengfors," the sorceress replied. Her gaze was distant, almost dreamy.

"Come again?"

"To teleport to another region, I need a piece of its land. A leaf, a flower," she explained. "So I can't craft a portal to Hengfors. But I can bring us back here. I can use a Vergen rock. Rocks are everywhere." She picked a pebble up off the ground, as if the assembly needed confirmation of this. "See?"

"Scoia'tael schemes, with a daft sorceress as the failsafe." The nobleman shook his head. "Milady, there's far too much at stake here. I plead you to consider less extreme alternatives."

"I see but one alternative," Saskia replied gravely. "If we cannot provide for everyone, then our only choice is to turn people away, and establish customs to restrict who can and cannot settle the Pontar Valley."

"Restrict immigration? Turn away refugees?" Cecil asked. "But where will they go then?"

"Ultimately, the goal will remain that they could come here," Saskia answered. "Just not now. Not yet."

"It's a harsh reality," grumbled Zoltan. "But maybe that's how it'll have to be for now."

"The free PontarValley was an ambitious plan…perhaps _too _ambitious to be realized all at once," the nobleman offered. "I believe it's the right choice you're making, Lady."

"But it's not my choice to make," said Saskia. "I will leave this to be decided by the citizens in a vote. Cecil, set up a ballot outside The Cauldron. Everyone has until tomorrow at dusk to elect Vergen's course of action: either select a convoy to journey north and trade with the Hengfors League, or start turning refugees away from our borders."

She turned to the crowd with a solemn expression. Iorveth knew that expression well. She donned it when she introduced him to the War Council. She donned it any time she had to persuade her subjects in matters of dire importance.

"Citizens, I urge you not to make this decision lightly," she began. "Before casting your votes, talk to your neighbors here in Vergen. And by neighbors, I mean _everyone_—elves and dwarves, peasants and nobles…and sorceresses likewise. Many of you may become convinced that we were wrong to assume ourselves so accommodating. You may sympathize with those who have called Vergen home for generations, who fear our good intentions will see us all starved, frozen, and seized by Nilfgaard like a helpless waif on war-torn streets. Perhaps you'll decide that even in the free realm, restricting our numbers is the only way we can survive."

She paused. "…Or, you may find yourselves moved by those for whom this place is the last remaining ray of hope."

Iorveth felt her gaze connect with his for a fleeting second before she went on.

"It is said that to understand a person's troubles, you must walk a mile in their shoes. There are those among us whose proverbial footsteps stretch back for countless miles, beset by oppression, bloodshed and heartbreak on all sides."

She moved her attention amongst those most verbal in the assembly: from the female Scoia'tael, to the blonde sorceress, to the ginger-haired peasant, and finally the nobleman in plumage.

"These people hoped and prayed for a place like this to put up their weary feet. And once they found it, many of them risked their lifeblood against Henselt's seemingly infallible forces for the chance to keep it. Perhaps, for their sake, you'll decide that an uncertain venture with an uncertain ally is worth the risk, so that the free realm remains truly free."

She raised her hands. "Go, and decide wisely. Tomorrow night we'll count your votes, and the future of the free Pontar Valley will be decided by all its citizens."

(***)

Over the course of the next day, activity buzzed around The Cauldron and the ballot just outside of it. Dwarves pledged their support for the convoy over tankards, and boasted of the mettle they'd display on the proposed mountain trek. Elves whispered dismally of the possible exodus back to the mercy of the forests. Human peasants and nobles seemed split down the middle on the whole issue. The sorceresses remained characteristically silent. The ballot box became fuller and fuller as the sun crept towards the western horizon.

When the hour of dusk arrived, tensions were palpable as the counting began.

(***)

The next morning, the ballot box was replaced by a big, bold sign on the notice board outside The Cauldron. It read: "Now seeking volunteers for the trading convoy to Hengfors. See Cecil Burdon for details."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The journey to Hengfors was announced. Within a week, the members of the convoy were selected, and their cargo gathered. Now, Saskia collected her things in her private quarters. In an hour's time, the company would depart.

She filled a travel pack with anything she may need: rations, maps, a compass, parchment and quill, among others. She mounted her shield and sword. All the while, her thoughts were on the difficult journey ahead. True, as Saesenthessis,she could fly over the Kestrel Mountains herself and deliver the iron ore to the Hengfors League, then return with much-needed provisions to Vergen before Nilfgaard could even mount an attack.

But the Pontar Valley needed her to be Saskia, not Saesenthessis. This mission was an opportunity for more than just a secure winter. She saw how divided her subjects were, how they squabbled among races and castes. By working together to achieve this seemingly distant-goal, they'd be another step closer to the harmony she and her father always strove for.

Still, with so much uncertainty on the horizon, she found herself once more wishing for Borch Three Jackdaws' ability to see the future. "Father…I hope what I do is right by you," she muttered to herself on her way out.

She was intercepted just outside her door. "Lady Saskia?" a small voice murmured.

She turned and met the speaker: a dwarven child. The little girl's strawberry blonde braids swiveled from side to side on her head as she coyly rocked back and forth in the Dragonslayer's presence. Her arms hugged around a package wrapped in robust cloth, tied meticulously with twine. Her face was tilted down towards her cargo, as though she wanted to hide her face in it.

"Yes?" Saskia leaned on her knees to face the child. "Speak."

"The family Olgar would like y' to have this," she recited, each word rehearsed. She extended the parcel with both arms. It was nearly the same size as its bearer. Saskia accepted the offering and unknotted the binds. The dwarven girl added, "I tied the string m'self."

The contents were soft. Saskia removed the cloth wrapping, and inside was a bundle of heavy, wine-colored material. Unfolding revealed it was a fur-lined cloak—embroidered with thick dwarven symbols along the bottom, latched by a metal clasp at the neck, and adorned with a tassel at the end of the hood.

"We made it fer yer journey," the child explained.

Saskia allowed a faint smile to creep on her lips. "It's beautiful; I've never seen its peer." She draped the gift on her shoulders. There were slits on each side, which her pauldrons fit easily through. Standing up straight, she found the garment reached down to her ankles. Great care had clearly gone into making it for her. "And it's to the family Olgar that I owe my gratitude?" she asked.

The girl nodded briskly. "We Olgars're a tailorin' clan, moved t' Vergen from Temeria after Henselt took over our part of the kingdom," she replied. "Everything we have, we owe to y—er, the Virgin of Aedirn."

Touched, Saskia knelt down to her. Her chin barely leveled with the top of the girl's head. "What is your name, young Olgar?" she asked.

"Delia. M' folks're Hilde and Oscar."

Saskia smiled warmly. "Then, Delia Olgar, tell your family their gift was sincerely appreciated, and I shall always think of their generosity as I wear it on the many cold nights' travel ahead. Tell them, also, that I hope they find themselves at home in Vergen, and I trust their fine craft will be put to good use here."

The girl grinned. "I will." With a tilt downward of her head, she shuffled away.

Saskia felt the fur lining of the cloak. She couldn't identify the animal it originated from—likely native to another region. The warmth it afforded truly would be appreciated on the journey ahead…if she truly were human. Her dragon nature remained ever hidden beneath her human guise, and among the advantages it brought was a strong resilience to extreme temperatures. Nevertheless, she tucked the gift's wrappings away in her personal effects and fastened the cloak's clasp around her neck as she strode on to Vergen's gates. She may not have had need of the garment…but best her subjects thought she did.

On the way, she was passed by Yarpen Zigrin, Zoltan Chivay, and a few town dwarves. All were carrying travel packs and headed towards the gates.

"I knew ye wouldn't disappoint us, Yarpen," Zoltan said. "It's no trading company without yer ugly mug."

"Aye, it'd be too bloody peaceful without y' too, ya cockerel," Yarpen retorted. "But I've yet to see eye or ear of Dandelion this morning. Did the git mention whether he was coming or not?"

"_Mention_ it? The bastard never shut up about it all bloody week," Zoltan grumbled. "Since the convoy was announced, all he'd blab about was how Saskia's company would need moral support in the Kestrel Mountains, whilst freezing our arses off and facin' who knows what sorts of fanged beasts. And of course, he was convinced that his music was the 'universal language' or some drivel to give us that moral support."

"Yet no sign of him now," remarked Yarpen.

"I'm getting' at that. This morning, he up and decided his unique talents would be 'best utilized' here in Vergen, with so many dispirited refugees in need of uplifting. Spoken while eyein' a passin' sorceress' arse, no less. Then he jogged off after her."

"Humans."

"Aye."

The dwarves passed on through Rhundurin Square. Saskia followed warily, a new cause for concern on her mind. Zoltan's words were true: the 'fanged beasts' laying in wait in the mountains would be a serious threat to them. Sadly, there were no witchers among them, and though her men had fought valiantly against the troops from Kaedwen, she had no idea of how they'd fare against monsters.

Awaiting her at Mahakam Gates was the young nobleman who had been the most articulate in his section at the rally the previous week. He sported an orange silk jerkin hardly suited for a mountain trek, and his peacock plumage hat still adorned his light brunette mop of hair.

"Count Tarn Marco," she addressed him. "I must admit, I wasn't expecting you on this expedition. At the assembly, you seemed most in favor of other options."

"Then I've made a poor first impression on you, Lady Saskia, and I entreat you to let my presence here serve to amend it." He bowed his head. If there was an art to speaking with an air of importance and pride, this young aristocrat was its master. "I've done as you asked and retrieved horses from my family's country estate to aid in our journey. They await outside Mahakam Gates. And might I just say, it's an honor to serve as your ambassador for this mission. I truly support your vision of Upper Aedirn as the birthplace of equality and tolerance. "

"But our hosts in Hengfors may not," she retorted. "Save your persuasive words for them, Tarn. That is why you accompany us, isn't it?"

He looked taken aback as she ventured past him.

"Tha…That's an exquisite cloak you wear, milady," he attempted. "It becomes you quite well. You must have imported it from an exclusive furrier in Vengerburg, if I be so bold to guess?"

"It was a gift, from a local family of dwarven tailors," she replied flatly.

"But that fur lining is unequaled by anything in this region. Is it fox? Mink?"

"Manticore," interjected a third speaker.

Saskia turned to the interloper. "Say again?"

"The cloak," Iorveth clarified. "It's lined with an Imperial Manticore pelt." Accompanying him were three Scoia'tael, including the dark-haired female from the rally.

"How can you tell that?" Saskia asked.

"Decades of sharing environs with the creatures of the wild have left their impression," he explained. "We're no monster hunters, but by knowing the predators of the woodlands and mountains well, elves had an improved chance of surviving. It was one less thing to worry about, aside the diseases and starvation we already faced."

Saskia stroked her chin in thought.

"The hide of a dangerous beast? Used in _tailoring?_" Tarn Marco glowered.

"'Waste not, want not' as the expression goes," the elf said, unfazed. "The Scoia'tael used to recover such furs by the crate from ambushed merchant carts."

"Ugh." The noble shook his head. "Milady, I've reserved my best stallion for you. Would you care to come and see him? I'm sure he'll take right to you."

Saskia waved her hand. "Go ahead, Count; I'll be along. Iorveth, I'd have a word with you first."

Tarn blinked hesitantly. He tipped his head once more with a strained effort and departed out the gate. Iorveth motioned to the Squirrels, and they too departed.

The dragoness turned to the elven commander. "I'm glad you decided to join us," she said. "Commerce with the Hengfors League was your idea, after all; I only recognized the merit in it."

"Our work securing the future of Upper Aedirn is not yet finished," he responded. "The Aen Seidhe leave nothing unfinished."

"Which is what I wanted to talk about. While we're in the Kestrel Mountains, there is a task I would entrust to you…but I venture that you won't like it."

He crossed his arms. "We'll see."

"These are dangerous conditions I lead my company into. I doubt we'll be back before the first blizzard strikes, and most of these men have never endured the mountains in wintertime, or… dealt with its monsters." She pinched her cloak's fur lining. "We'd do well to have someone at the forefront who has faced these harsh elements before—someone who can properly equip us for them."

"In other words, you ask that I attend to your company's survival," he guessed.

"I cannot do it myself," she admitted. "My…'upbringing' left me with little need to learn survival methods, or even how to dress a wound."

He nodded in understanding of what she really meant by "upbringing."

"I don't need to explain what this task would mean. We both know how these people perceive you…and not without sound reason." She eyed him directly. "Know that I don't ask you to do this so these humans may forgive you. They won't…at least not in their lifetimes. I ask you to do this simply because there are none here who match the survival skills of the legendary Woodland Fox." She gestured towards him. "If you should agree, just remember that our party's welfare—their lives—would depend on you. Even the humans'."

"You're right." He uncrossed his arms. "I don't like the sound of that. But if this is what you need of me, so be it…on one condition."

"What condition?"

"My men revere you, Saskia," he said, "but they still also look to me for guidance. We are no less united than we were in Flotsam's forests. If I'm forced to choose between the wellbeing of the Scoia'tael and that of the _dh'oine_, understand I can't turn on my own. I can't, and I won't."

"I understand perfectly, and I expected no less," she agreed. "I promise you this: I will do all in my power to ensure it doesn't come to that."

"Your promises are among the few that I value," he replied somberly.

"Yours, too, have proven they're worth their weight," she commended. "So there's one more thing I must ask. I trust you'll find it more agreeable." Saskia reached into her travel pouch and produced a familiar book. Philippa Eilhart's spellbook, with one of the pages torn out. "I found this in my former advisor's effects when her quarters were cleared for new tenants," she explained. "Is this how you discovered what she'd done?"

"I sensed something awry from Henselt's surrender," he recalled. "But Geralt confirmed it with a page from this."

She extended the spellbook to him. "Keep it safe," she instructed. "It's likely we'll need it."

He took it dubiously. "But why give it to me? I haven't a working knowledge of magic spells."

"_You_ haven't, perhaps," she said. "But our sorceress has."

"The one with the pebble?" Iorveth remembered the platinum blonde's folly at the assembly.

"Cecil tells me her name is Faye of Ban Ard," Saskia explained. "She fled here from Kaedwen, after Henselt readily jumped at the chance to purge his kingdom of sorceresses following Loc Muinne. Faye was in shock from the atrocities she'd seen, and didn't utter a word during her first week in Vergen. She hasn't been, to use Cecil's words, 'Mining with the right end of the pickaxe' ever since."

"Yet she's coming with us?"

"She spoke the truth; we may need to teleport back here quickly if Nilfgaard attacks. Time is of the essence, so we may wish to teleport back here anyway, once our trade is made. Not to worry—I haven't forgotten what she could be capable of." Saskia laid her palm on the cover of the spellbook. "That's why you have this. You said you realized first that something was amiss when Philippa had me spellbound. Now, if our Faye proves to be but another Eilhart, you'll know what to do."

He stashed the book away. "It's funny," he mused. "Eilhart was so certain you were incapable of leading without her influence. You prove her wrong ever further each time we speak."

Her mouth tightened, threatening to smile. "You think so, do you?"

"I know so."

She covered her head with the cloak's hood and glanced down as though to say something...right before an approaching clatter of hoofbeats on stone grabbed her attention.

"Look out! Look out!" hollered a peasant's voice atop the horse. Saskia sprang back just in time for the unruly red horse to cut in between her and Iorveth as it galloped on through to Rhundurin Square.

"Stop him!" cried Count Tarn Marco from the far end of Mahakam Gate. "Stop that imbecile before he hurts my father's favorite mule!"

The Scoia'tael girl came running after the horse—or mule, according to Tarn. "Pull the reigns, you idiot!" she shouted to the rider. "If you flail them around, the animal will only ignore your commands!"

"I'm trying!" the inept rider wailed. As the mule started to buck and kick, vendors in the square dove for cover. There were loud exclamations as stands were kicked over and goods scattered. "Help! He won't listen to me!"

The Squirrel caught up to the mule and seized the reigns, bringing the wayward animal to a halt. She pulled the reigns downward, bringing the mule's face to hers, and stroked its nose to calm it. Vendors peered cautiously out from under their stands.

"Did you hear nothing the _dh'oine_ in the feather hat just said?" she reprimanded the rider once the mule was subdued.

Saskia now recognized the rider as the ginger-haired peasant from the assembly.

"This animal," continued the Squirrel, "is for pulling the supply wagon. It isn't trained for a rider."

"I…I…" stammered the peasant. "I meant nothin' by it…honest…I just thought that…"

She gave an exasperated sigh. "Get off."

"But—"

"Get. Off."

He slid sheepishly off of the mule's back. She led the animal back outside Mahakam Gate, with a humble utterance of "Many pardons, Commander," as she passed Iorveth, averting her face.

"Tend your duties, Lark," he responded.

The ginger peasant limped after Lark, having just discovered the sore consequence of saddle-less riding suffered by so many men before his time. "Good…mornin'…Saskia…" he groaned with each step, trying to be discreet as he nursed his afflicted nether parts.

"Lionel," she acknowledged.

Once Lark and Lionel were out of earshot, Iorveth looked at Saskia. "…Is that man coming along as well?"

"Only if he walks the whole way."


	4. Chapter 4

_Anon reviewer: Thanks for the encouragement! And yes, of course I walked Dandelion in the succubus' den. I can't imagine he would...not. XD I was a little jarred by how sternly Saskia treats Geralt at the end, too, but I just chalked it up to "She was wounded, just seconds ago got out of what was essentially an abusive relationship with Philippa, and here this witcher is trying to hook her up with a serial killer." :P_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

"Ploughin' drowners!" growled Zoltan on the upper bank of the Pontar. "Ye'd think _one_ death would be enough fer these rotten pricks!" He swung a sword at the amphibious, animate corpses that swarmed the riverbank.

"Then shut it and oblige 'em another, why don't ye?!" Yarpen retorted, axe in hand to fend off the drowners.

"Back to the depths with you, beast!" Lark cursed, drawing on her longbow and piercing a drowner through the decrepit skull. She beamed as she hit her mark.

Heeding his word to Saskia, Iorveth stood on the sidelines of the fray, ready to intervene should the monsters overpower the combatants. It seemed this would not be necessary. A few simple drowners were little threat to a party of this size—least of all to a band of elven and dwarven warriors whose bones itched for a good fight. Their battle cries rang with pent-up enthusiasm, and their weapons fell quickly on the necrophage aggressors. He let them have their fun for now…knowing full well the hardships in store for them further up the trail.

The drowner with the arrow through its head lunged at Lark. She holstered her bow and met it with her dual swords instead. In the meantime, Zoltan and Yarpen felled the creatures that attacked them in flurries of steel on waterlogged flesh.

It was a few hours into their journey, and so far the drowners had been the only complication. There had been no sign of Nilfgaardian troops when the convoy set out from Vergen…nor of Kaedweni, or Aedirnian ones. Not even the Knights of the Flaming Rose had come forth to oppose them. They had gotten as far as the edge of the Pontar River, where the only vessel able to accommodate their numbers and cargo—Loredo's prison barge—bobbed in wait. They had crossed the river on it, and it was while disembarking that they'd met this first foe.

While the more battle-ready among them busied themselves cutting down the river-dwellers, others remained on the barge. Iorveth looked up to the deck. Faye, the sorceress, watched the battle intently while playing with a lock of her hair. Lionel, the peasant, attempted to keep the horses subdued…under strict scrutiny by a skeptical Count Tarn Marco. Saskia held firmly to the side of the boat as it rocked amidst the chaos. Occasionally she called out instructions for the passengers to move and redistribute the weight, lest they capsize and lose the key to Vergen's prosperity to the bottom of the river. All the while she surveyed the battle, waiting for the all clear to usher everyone ashore.

"Right, there's the last of 'em," Yarpen declared when the final drowner moved no more.

"Let's waste no more time, then." Saskia mounted the stallion Tarn had been so eager to show off to her—a fine palomino specimen—and coaxed the creature down the gangplank.

Iorveth's gaze remained rapt on her. Had anyone else asked him to protect a crew of humans from their own incompetence in the harsh wilderness, he would have no shortage of choice words for them…but not when it was Saskia who willed it. As she rode her mount to the front of the convoy—her cloak draped regally behind and her strong, aesthetic jawline jutted in confidence—her very presence commanded his admiration. He was, after all, indebted to her for the secured future of the Aen Seidhe. He conjured nothing she might ask of him that he would not grant her.

She gave him a passing glance from horseback, her golden hair whipping about her face in the breeze, and he found himself suddenly more interested in the sun's reflection on the river.

"Cor, I think I stepped in summin'," Lionel griped as he headed down the gangplank and wiped his boots on the grass.

"Fast learner, this one." Tarn strode onto the shore, followed by two anonymous human peasants carefully set about bringing their cargo ashore. "First, he discovers why not to embark on cargo mules. Next he learns an invaluable lesson of where not to step in the presence of animals. I'll be putting my herd's care in his capable hands yet."

"I told you," Lark chimed in from the shore. "Let me watch over your herd. I am accomplished with animals."

Tarn forced a smile at her while climbing into the driver's seat of the cargo cart. He assumed the reigns. "Your willingness to contribute is…thoughtful, elf. But they're horses, not wild does."

Her mouth twisted in a nuanced scowl. "We used horses in the Scoia'tael unit I served before coming to Upper Aedirn," she said coolly.

"You'll have to excuse me if I'm less than impressed with a bandit's flair for handling _stolen_ livestock," Tarn responded, while the two peasants ferried the remaining horses off the barge and onto the shore. "However, Lady Saskia did request I provide mounts for everyone on this expedition, and I honor her wishes above all else." He glanced at Saskia with that final afterthought. "So by all means, Squirrel, help yourself to a horse, and consider it your responsibility to look after that one alone. That goes for the rest of your lot, too."

Saying nothing more, Lark selected one of the horses now waiting on the riverbank—a dapple grey suited to her lesser size—and climbed on its back. The rest of the convoy followed suit. At last, only one horse remained without a rider.

Iorveth looked at the edge of the water where the skirmish against the drowners had occurred. There was Faye of Ban Ard, skirts gathered in hand, barefoot and walking ankle-deep in the Pontar River. She stopped at every fallen drowner, knelt over it, and reverently drew her hand over its eyes to close them.

"We've no time to mourn for monstrosities, _daerienn_!" he called to her.

"Whatever hangs shall not drown," she murmured detachedly. "But these souls have done both."

"And now they trouble us no more. So come take your horse, and let's be off," he instructed her.

She walked with a cautious step—heeding the tiny pebbles beneath her bare feet—back to the party. As she climbed on the last horse, assuming a side-saddle position, Iorveth noticed something in her hand. Drowner brain tissue, which she promptly stashed away. "For crafting," she remarked. "What dies may yet live on. That is the nature of Alchemy."

Iorveth clenched his teeth. At least Philippa Eilhart never spoke so cryptically. "Alchemy is not our main concern. You do, at least, have the means to transport us back when our trade is finished?"

Faye pulled on a string around her neck, revealing a trinket hidden under her blouse. It was a metallic wire fixture, and set within it a single coarse, oblong stone the size of an arrowhead. "This piece of Vergen never leaves my sight," she assured him, tucking it away again.

That would have to do for now.

At the front of the group, Saskia unfurled the map she had used at the assembly. "Not far from here is a westward road which will take us to Murivel," she informed the convoy. "From there, we'll enter the foot of the Kestrel Mountains. After me, men! And stay vigilant—our enemies may abound." She kicked her steed's flanks and was off, the rest close behind.

The party was a varied bunch. Saskia took the lead. Behind her, the dwarves congregated on their steeds around a massive cart, pulled by two shire horses and driven by Tarn. Within was a bounty of metal ore, sufficient for Hengfors' blacksmiths to begin preparing a defense against Nilfgaard. Following that, a simple wagon was pulled by the mule and driven by a human peasant, with Lionel and the others nearby. The mule carried feed for the animals, tents for camp, and other provisions the group would need on its journey. Faye trailed them, head down and kept to herself. Iorveth and the Squirrels remained at the very back.

The scuffle with the drowners had seemed like a festivity compared to the next few hours, where virtually nothing happened at all. The convoy merged onto the westward road under Saskia's guidance and followed it, while their shadows became more and more elongated behind them as the afternoon dragged on.

At one point, Lionel attempted to strike up conversation with Lark.

"If'n ya don't mind me sayin', Miss…" the peasant began, "…you don't look like a lot of other Squirrels."

Her facial response mirrored the one when Tarn suggested she was only fit to handle deer. "…That's due in part to my not being a full Aen Seidhe," she replied sourly.

"That'd explain it. You're half human, then?" Lionel asked.

She glared at him. "If you ever compare me to a _dh'oine_ again, I'll have your teeth for trinkets around my neck." She paused, and Iorveth felt her apprehensive glance on him for a brief second. "…My parents were both half-blooded as well," she went on, her tone less hostile. "I may have a human grandparent on either side, but that never diluted my loyalty to the Scoia'tael cause. I've never even met them, not that I mind."

"We ain't alike in that, then," he mused.

"We're not alike in many ways," she replied, then stayed silent.

A few paces up the trail, Yarpen and Zoltan were enjoying the characteristically dwarven pastime of exchanging bawdy jokes with the other dwarves.

"And then the human says to the elf, 'But I couldn't help laughin' when I saw the gnome headin' back… carryin' ten ploughin' pineapples!'" Yarpen delivered. All the dwarves howled with laughter.

"Fuck it all, that gets better every time I hear it," Zoltan chuckled.

"It's all in the timin'," Yarpen responded. "And speakin' of which, Saskia, how much longer 'till we get to Murivel?"

She inspected the map. "If conditions favor us, we can be at its gates in a day and a half."

"At its gates?" Zoltan repeated. "Are we goin' into the city proper? It is inside Redanian borders, all that considered."

"We will send Tarn in first," Saskia responded. "Our Count has volunteered his services as our diplomat, so he will use his standing to get inside the city and report to us what reception we may expect."

"I'll win us safe passage at any cost to myself, Milady," Tarn interjected. "And if it pleases you, I'll negotiate commerce with Murivel itself. Perhaps we won't need to journey all the way to Hengfors after all."

"Let's keep our optimism in check," Saskia cautioned him. "We cannot prematurely count any town under Radovid's reign as an ally. Redania's king may not take kindly if he finds out how many refugee sorceresses Upper Aedirn now numbers."

The open road, until now sprawling across farmlands and fields, now began to lead them into a forest. Iorveth became wary. He knew firsthand that forests were ideal for traps. Faye, it seemed, somehow sensed the danger, too. Until now she had been keeping to herself, braiding and unbraiding a section of her horse's mane while humming an eerie tune to herself. Once under the canopy of the autumn-painted leaves, she fell abruptly silent.

"…Something's wrong," she whispered.

Never one to dismiss such a foreboding, no matter who issued it, Iorveth took his bow in hand and hurried his mount to catch up with Saskia's at the front of the group.

"Saskia, we risk an ambush in these woods," he warned her. "Would you have my men take the front to watch the treetops and ground for traps?"

"Do you suspect Redanian forces?" she asked.

"I only suspect _trouble_."

She nodded in assent. "Then you and your Scoia'tael take the lead and act as our lookouts. Our dwarves will surround the cargo. I'll cover the group from behind, should we be followed."

He turned back to the Squirrels trailing behind the convoy. "Scoia'tael! _With me, to the front!" _he commanded in Elder Speech. They shifted to the head of the group.

Saskia pulled back on her reigns, bringing her palomino to a halt and letting the company pass before resuming. "Yarpen, you and the rest surround the cart!" she instructed.

"Bollocks, it's like the Kaedwen Trail all over again," grumbled Yarpen as he and the other dwarves fortified the cart.

"What's goin' on, then?" Lionel asked the air around him. "Anything I should be doing?"

"Stay close," Saskia issued. "And if we're attacked, do as I say."

As they ventured cautiously into the forest, there was hardly a sound—no birds or wildlife. That meant there was almost certainly something lurking among the trees. Iorveth stayed vigilant. The fallen tawny leaves on the ground suddenly became too thick…as if they had not fallen naturally, but had been swept there.

"Lark, clear away those leaves."

The half-elf Squirrel dismounted. She held her reigns with one hand and picked up a stick with the other. While leading her horse, she brushed away the leaves with the stick. Sure enough, something grizzly and metallic lay underneath the first pile she cleared.

"Snares," Lark identified.

_"Voe'rle!"_ Iorveth barked. The company abruptly halted while Lark continued sweeping away the leaves and disarming the traps she found—a delay that made them easy targets.

"Watch out!" Saskia exclaimed from behind, but too late. Several explosions followed, causing horses to rear in panic. Being at the back of the line and nearest to the blasts, she, Faye and Lionel were all thrown from their mounts. The others promptly jumped to the ground when panic overtook their horses.

Iorveth spun around, and amidst the chaos he saw where the explosions had come from. Behind them, several figures stood at the edges of the trees on either side of the trail. They donned camouflaged blankets of foliage, which they discarded as they joined on the trail. They wore typical bandit attire, and some had their faces concealed by masks, but all appeared to be human. Some of them reared back and fired another round of Grapeshot bombs. The bombs hurtled towards the already disheveled party.

On her knees, Faye waved her hands and mumbled an incantation. The party was encased in a bright yellow dome, which the bombs exploded harmlessly against. Iorveth recognized this spell; Triss Merigold had used it against his archers months ago when she, Geralt and the dog Roche had arrived in Flotsam.

"Oh ho! Looks like we got a sorceress here, chaps!" chortled one of the bandits.

"Take her alive! You know what kinda bounty they're offerin' in Murivel for the likes of her!" another added.

"I still get first pick of whatever's in the cart!" declared a third.

The bandits drew their weapons—a jumble of spears, axes and swords likely stolen from other travelers—and advanced into Faye's yellow dome. A few clung to the outside, assaulting the magic barrier with a steady barrage of bombs. It was unclear whether they were trying to break through it, or simply keep the horses spooked.

Saskia was already back on her feet, shield and sword brandished. With a forceful battle cry, she engaged the first bandit to step into the circle. His mace clanged off her shield, then was met in the shriek of metal on metal by her sword.

"Lionel! Tarn! Subdue the horses!" she ordered, as the bandit kicked her in the stomach and made her reel, only to suffer her counterattack.

"Do as she says!" Tarn hollered, climbing off the cart. "Get these panicked beasts under control!" He, Lionel and the other two peasants set about trying to stop all the horses from bucking and kicking. Some had been wounded from the shrapnel of the Grapeshot blows and had galloped off into the trees, bellowing.

The dwarves were gladly repelling their attackers, making a din of hollers and insults to the bandits' mothers. Dwarven axes and swords expressed their boisterous fury. All the while, Faye remained on her knees, laboring to maintain the shield spell. A bandit with a spear charged at her, but he was promptly swatted away by a strike from Zoltan's sword. "Have that, ye right bastard!" he snarled.

The forest trail had quickly erupted into a tangled mayhem of frenzied horses, Grapeshot explosions and clashing of arms: the sort of mayhem the Scoia'tael had no business standing by and watching idly.

Iorveth exchanged his bow for swords. "Let none of these _bloede dh'oine _draw another breath!" he incited the Squirrels. "At them!"

The clamor of elven curved swords was added to the underscore of the battle. Iorveth's first opponent had little time to express his shock before he perished on those swords' edges.

Lark slashed fiercely at a bandit en route for the cart._"Long live Sverren!" _she shouted. The other Squirrels made their usual cries in the names of Iorveth and Aelirenn. One even called out "For Saskia!"

A bandit still outside the yellow dome inched off in fear. "Aren't…aren't those Squirrels?!" he stammered. "Cripes, these merchants got Squirrels with 'em!"

"Stop shittin' yourself, Horace! Squirrels bleed just like anyone!" another shot back, aiming a Grapeshot at the dome. "We got 'em cornered…traps on the far side, and _you-know-what _on this side! So grow a pair, get in there and fight 'em!"

Horace's "growing a pair" resulted in him taking the hilt of Saskia's sword to his temple (barely a foot inside the magic circle) and tumbling face-first on the ground.

The human bandits shortly began to fall, one after the other, like the short-lived rodents they were. Iorveth's swords dripped like the fangs of a starving hound presented a fresh carcass. In the months of inaction since Loc Muinne…since the last two "monastic curs" to die by his hand before the peace summit, he had not lost his aptitude—nor his pleasure—for bringing an end to the humans that crossed him.

But what did the other bandit mean by "you-know-what"?

Faye's magic barrier finally gave out, just as the last bandit met his demise by Yarpen's axe. There was one more, masked bandit standing but a few paces away. The stature of this individual was lean enough that it could have been a man or a woman…and there were no vocal expressions to indicate either.

The party waited for the lone bandit to act.

The "bandit" produced a staff and teleported away in a flash of light.


	5. Chapter 5

[Ehecatl—Thanks so much for the thorough criticism. Man, where were you when I started posting this on DeviantArt? You bring up some very valid points. I rewrote the first few chapters to indicate that the mule is carrying supplies-tents, feed for the horses, etc-and there's a larger wagon being pulled by two shire horses containing the ore. I will address the issues of the treacherous mountain route and Faye's ability to teleport the group in later chapters. Thanks again! I love reviewers like you who keep me on my toes.]

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Saskia tallied up her company in her head. …_And, that's everyone. Good. No one's lost._

By now Tarn, Lionel and the other humans had gathered the horses. Some of the poor creatures had Grapeshot shrapnel wounds, and one had stepped in a snare in the ruckus. Faye sat wearily on her knees with an assortment of cloth and herbs around her. She imbued the cloths with the herbs and handed one off to Lark, who cleaned and promptly bandaged her mount's injuries. Others soon replicated this process.

Everyone was equally confused by what just happened. Voices clamored throughout the convoy.

"Those bandits had a spellcaster."

"But why? Didn't they say Murivel was collecting bounties on sorceresses? Why would mages hunt other mages?"

"That mage didn't cast a single spell before high-tailin' it. Maybe whoever it was had more loyalty to coin than to fellow wand-wavers. That'd explain keepin' quiet."

"Mages are a devious lot. Maybe that one _meant _for these bandits to get killed. I mean, I didn't see a single fireball or lightning bolt cast to aid them, did you?"

"Faye should stay hidden, if Murivel's in the habit of burning sorceresses for their entertainment. In fact, we should stay away from Murivel altogether."

"Do you think Murivel is still under Redanian jurisdiction? Or has Nilfgaard swallowed 'em whole?"

Slowly but surely the company regrouped. The Scoia'tael disarmed the remaining traps hidden under the leaves, and the path ahead was cleared. Still, Saskia felt several eyes on her for reassurance.

"Has this altered your plan at all, Milady?" Tarn asked her. "Do you still wish for me to proceed to Murivel as your envoy? Or do you see fit to pursue another route?"

She glanced to the leaf-littered forest floor, weighing the options in the best interest of her subjects. Getting involved in the turbulent matters of another nation could spell suicide for the travelers, or worse, the entirety of Upper Aedirn. However, if bounty hunters and rogue mages were to be a continued threat to them, then perhaps they'd benefit from learning what the situation was in Murivel.

She needed time to think, and she could not do it here. "We'll discuss our course in due time," she responded. "First, we must get out of these woods before the corpses of the fallen attract beasts. Can our horses endure more travel?"

"Their wounds are dressed," the Count replied. "As long as we move on slowly, they should be up for it."

"They should still be allowed to stop for the night," Lark cut in, "when we get to safer surroundings."

"All right. We'll make camp shortly outside the woods," Saskia declared. "Let's continue."

On the way to her horse, Iorveth aligned shoulders with her. "We're within Redanian borders," he noted just above a whisper. "That mage's face _and eyes_ were concealed. Could it have been…?"

"It wasn't her. If it was, she would have flown away, not teleported."

"Even if it meant revealing herself?"

"I know her better than she would prefer," Saskia said. "Trust me, this was not her way."

"It could have still been an associate, then. Or an apprentice," Iorveth suggested. "I'd not dismiss the mage's presence here as a coincidence until I was certain."

"We'll proceed with diligence," she agreed. "Perhaps time will yield answers."

A muffled groan came from the ground level. "Rrrgh, ploughin' Squirrels…killin' me mates…bollocks to all of you…"

Several heads darted to and fro among the lifeless bandits to see which one had spoken. It wasn't long before the least inanimate was identified: the one who had been felled by Saskia's sword hilt upon stepping into Faye's magic circle. Horace, he was called.

"You!" Iorveth knelt over the bandit, the dagger affixed to his chestpiece now gripped in hand and pointed at the back of the lone survivor's neck. "Make another move and you'll find yourself reunited with the rest of your rabid pack. Understood?"

Horace stopped squirming instantly and lay still, face in the leaves.

The elf brought his gaze up to Saskia. "Here are the answers we seek. Shall I be the one to ask?"

She nodded in assent. If there was a survivor amongst their ambushers, perhaps the decision of their next move would be made easier, after all. "Try to show restraint while asking, Iorveth," she advised.

Horace's eyes peered up from the ground. "Iorveth?" he repeated, and visibly gulped. "Not _the _Iorveth…?"

"The only one you need be concerned with now," his interrogator replied. "Turn out your pockets."

The bandit complied, scattering an assortment of Novigrad crowns, dice and caltrops onto the ground. Iorveth confiscated these effects, then searched his quarry further to relieve him of a concealed dagger. Then he turned to the Scoia'tael. "Check the bodies for anything useful," he instructed. "Then line them up in the ditch they first hid in." He turned back to Horace. "Leave room for one more," he added.

The hapless bandit's hair was gathered in a fist, propelling his face upward so he could see the elves carrying out this order. He was numb with fear.

"If my reputation precedes me, then I'd assume I don't need to explain to you how this will work," Iorveth declared, his voice never deviating from its deadpan drawl. "But since your actions so far haven't inspired much confidence, I will explain in words even you couldn't fail to grasp. You will answer all that I ask to the best of your knowledge. In so doing, you will spare yourself all the miserable ends suffered by your companions, _combined. _Is this clear to you?"

Looking on from a distance, Saskia noted the bandit's expression. It fell a bit, as if he admitted defeat and was prepared to cooperate. "As a fucking bell," he responded. "But you're wasting your time. We're just highwaymen, making a living off whatever we can get our hands on."

"You _were. _How long has that mage been in your ranks?"

Horace blinked. "…Mage? What mage?"

His unconvincing tone ended in a yelp as a vice-like pinch seized the pressure point at the base of his neck. Saskia blinked hard, and a few among the non-elves in the party shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Was that unpleasant? Because there are dozens of other ways to achieve it. I guarantee, if you don't jog your memory, my means of jogging it for you will make you wish you had," said Iorveth. "The mage who stood by and watched your comrades all die, and who teleported afterward. Divulge what you know about _that _mage."

"W-What's there to tell? A-After Loc Muinne, mages around these parts is too busy pissin' themselves to wave wands," Horace stammered. "The bounty on magic folk in places like Murivel keeps it that way. They disguise themselves these days, hide in plain sight…"

"And hunt other mages?"

"Keeps the attention offa themselves, don't it?" posed the bandit. "Nobody suspects a sorceress of sittin' by, cheerin' with the rest of the rabble, while a fellow sorceress burns at the stake."

"It _was _a sorceress with you, then? A woman?"

"Sure."

"I want her name."

"Well, you're shit outta luck. I don't know it."

"Is that so?" Iorveth pressed his foot down on Horace's back and pulled the bandit's arm up behind him. He grazed one of the spiked caltrops along his quarry's hand, positioning one of the pointed edges at the fingertip, just under the fingernail. "I expect even the densest thief knows better than to consort with masked, anonymous strangers. So why not try your answer again?"

There was no reply. The caltrop's sharp edge dug down. An unsettling mix of scream and laugh issued from Horace's throat. Saskia averted her gaze, jaw firmly set. She noticed that Faye had buried her face in her horse's side in revulsion. Lionel was turning white.

Iorveth re-engaged one of the snares and forced Horace's hand down towards it, the caltrop still wedged under his fingernail. "Ready to start proving useful? Give me a description. An alias. Then I'll reconsider putting your traps to new use."

"You're ploughin' mad!"

The trap snapped shut.

Saskia stepped forward. This was too much. She had agreed to this interrogation, but she saw now it was being done for the wrong reasons. Any information Iorveth got from the highwayman had become secondary to the amusement he got from extracting it. She had no delusions about the elf's menacing nature…but she would not abide it, not here and now.

"Hold on. Let me handle this," she insisted.

Iorveth stood and backed away compliantly. Saskia knelt down to the bandit with his bleeding hand in a snare, body jolting with repressed sobs.

"When they attacked us, your companions obviously thought their mage would aid them," she told him firmly. "But as I recall, not a single spell was cast in your favor during combat. Even when you discovered us to be protected by Scoia'tael, the only spell to be cast by your sorceress at all was to teleport away after you were all presumed dead."

She took the caltrop out of his fingertip as gently as possible before going on. Horace rolled his head to the side to face her bleakly.

"If you hold out due to loyalty towards this spellcaster, believe me when I say that loyalty is misaimed. Disclose to us what you know about this individual. Then, on my honor, you will walk away, and chances will be bettered of your betrayer seeing justice."

He nodded slowly. "She ain't been with us but a week. Kept her face covered most of the time, but I saw her take her shawl off once or twice to drink outta the stream yonder. She had her hair buzzed nigh up to the scalp…couldn't tell what color it was before. And her eyes were green as the grass."

"You never caught a name?"

"She just went by 'Lily.' That's all I ever heard, honest. She was just some no-account magician, lookin' to dodge the stake."

Saskia hesitated, then released the snare to free his hand. "Up. We're done here. Go east on this trail, and entertain no thoughts of following us. Iorveth, return his personal effects. Keep his weapons."

Iorveth tossed the dice and money to the ground. Horace collected them before stumbling up.

"Make no mistake. It is only by the grace of Saskia the Dragonslayer that you will see tomorrow," Iorveth cautioned Horace. "Should you tell anyone of us, do not omit that your thieves had us corned, yet we cut you down to a man. We won't hesitate to do it again."

"Our aims don't concern Redania, and we intend no trouble on this land," Saskia added. "But if we are crossed, Redania will learn as Kaedwen did that the people of Upper Aedirn are not to be trifled with."

She turned away and headed past Iorveth back to her stallion. Behind her, she heard the bandit grumble, "That meddling bint will be the end of you all."

Next, she heard an abrupt thrust of blade through flesh and an agonized scream, followed by the thud of a body falling over and shrieks of "My foot! You crazy son of a cunt! You stabbed me right through the fucking foot!"

Horace remained on the trail, whimpering and cradling his pierced appendage. The party mounted up and departed, to the tune of far fewer well-intentioned pleasantries and lewd dwarven jokes than on the way into the forest.

Out of the corner of her eye, Saskia spied Iorveth with his dagger back in its place on his chestpiece. The handle was now stained red.

(***)

The convoy stopped for the night just outside the forest. The mule's cart was unloaded of tents and other supplies, and a camp was set up. Dandelion's music would have been a welcome addition that evening around the fire. Tales of the White Wolf's exploits against royal strigas and lovestruck bruxas (tales which may or may not have undergone artistic license) would have served well to alleviate the tense silence that hung over the campsite. Finally, a night watch schedule was set, and one by one the travelers retired.

(***)

Saskia heard screams in her sleep. Cries of terror echoed off the stone walls of a dark cave, all from dwarven throats. The dwarves made frantic shouts for help. Desperate pleas for help. Despondent silence when it became clear help was not coming. Underlying it all was the guttural snarl of ever present monsters in the shadows. Fangs sprang out of the black.

She awoke to a pounding heart. As with any nightmare, she breathed deeply in her tent and awaited the fears of her subconscious to be quelled by reality. Sadly, relief could not fully take her, for the images in her dream _had _been real once, and this same nightmare had periodically plagued her since. There were variations every time it recurred, but there was no mistaking what it represented: the mines beneath Vergen. Not long before the battle for Upper Aedirn, rotfiends had appeared en masse in Vergen's mines, and she had made the grave decision—with a fair share of encouragement from Philippa Eilhart—to close the mines off…even though there were still miners trapped inside.

Saskia knew, even without Philippa's assurances, that the sacrifice had been necessary. King Henselt's forces already outnumbered them a staggering five to one. Every warrior they might have sent to an uncertain fate in a rescue attempt would have only tipped the odds even further in Kaedwen's favor. That fact did not ease the dismal thoughts of those miners' final hours. The fear that must have gripped them…the hunger and starvation that at last withered them away…

She put her cloak on over her nightgown, wrapped it tightly around her and exited the tent. The morning dew beaded on her bare feet with every step. The eastern horizon just now began to whisper promises of an approaching dawn. Most of the convoy remained asleep in their tents; it was a good time to be alone with her thoughts.

Most distressing of all was the knowledge that she would have been more than a match for a few necrophages in her true skin. Just as she would have been more than a match for Henselt's forces simply by emptying her lungs of flame in flight over them. Just as she could make this present journey alone with her own two wings hidden by magic from her subjects' sight.

The truth remained the same as it had when that mine's entrance slammed shut and barred: sacrifices must be expected in pursuit of a cause as radical as the free Pontar Valley. But her doubts were ever present that she made the right sacrifices…or asked them of the right people.

"…Is…everything all right, Lady Saskia?" asked a female voice. Lark sat cross-legged on the wagon, back upright and eyes attentive to her surroundings.

"No need for the title. I've had a hard enough time breaking Tarn of that habit," the dragoness responded. "'Saskia' will do."

"Alright. Saskia." The Squirrel nodded. "What brings you out here so early?"

Saskia spied the horses tied up nearby. "We should get on the move as soon as possible after daybreak," she said. "I want to confirm that the horses will be up to the task."

"I checked their wounds before starting my watch shift," Lark assured her. "They're mending fine. The sorceress' herbs must have helped. But we shouldn't push them to run or jump, if it can be helped."

Saskia wandered over and pat her palomino's side. The stallion didn't make any signs of protest; he only nickered, hopeful for grain. While she granted him a handful her dream still weighed heavily on her, and she looked for a means to push it from her mind.

"I heard you call to a 'Sverren' in battle with those bandits," she said to Lark. "Who is he?"

The Squirrel gazed off into the horizon, as though longingly. "He _was _the Scoia'tael leader I fought under before joining this one. Special Forces got him and his unit—I was the only one to escape their end."

"I knew I didn't recall seeing you among Iorveth's ranks in the Battle of Vergen."

A shrug. "I'm half-human. I'm doubtful the Commander would have abided me…not before the free Pontar Valley was founded, anyway."

Saskia glanced in the direction where the Squirrels were camped. She doubted Iorveth lost sleep over the deaths _he_ caused. She predicted the maimed bandit on the forest trail was the furthest thing from his mind tonight.

"Are there no other half-elves amongst Scoia'tael?" she asked Lark.

"Not many. _Dh'oine _and Aen Seidhe alike suspect us of favoring our other half. But Sverren understood our plight, so he let us into his ranks." She bit her lip. "Some say that's what weakened his commando and led to its—and his—demise."

"I didn't intend to bring up such a difficult subject," Saskia apologized.

Lark waved her hand. "Think nothing of it. My tears are long shed, but I still honor his memory. That's why I call on him in battle."

"So you found your way to Vergen after your unit was lost?"

"Once I heard of your achievements, yes. For awhile beforehand I tried to join other Scoia'tael, but I couldn't gain their trust. The _dh'oine _blood in my veins ran thicker than the blood on my hands, it seemed." She lowered her voice. "I'm not sure the Commander trusts me even now. I'm wary he might even blame my unit's fate on 'dilution' by the likes of me."

"If that were the case, would he be placing the camp's security in your hands now?" Saskia posed. "Iorveth knows that the only way elves can hope to survive is through cooperation with other races. I won't say he's content with it, of course, but he is willing to devote his all to our harmonious nation."

Lark tilted her head. "He stabbed a man in the foot only for disrespecting you."

Saskia pursed her lips. "I'm aware."

"Are you…are you two…?" Lark's voice trailed off.

Saskia looked at her pointedly. "Are we what?"

"Forgive me—I may assume too much," Lark said quickly. "It's just when I saw you both talking privately at Mahakam Gates…when I was chasing that mule …it looked to me like you were…close."

Saskia smirked. "You're not the first to assume that. Our cooperation has spawned many rumors, it seems."

"'Humanity's greatest adversary, subdued by a human woman'? I can see why such a rumor would spread fast," Lark observed.

Lark was unaware of her true nature, Saskia noted. Come to think of it, no one in the company knew the truth about her, except for Iorveth.

"There are things I've entrusted to him that I couldn't to anyone else. Not just to anyone else in this convoy…to anyone else I know," she admitted. "So, I suppose we _are_ close, as you put it, to an extent. But only to an extent."

"I see," Lark said.

Saskia returned her attention to her horse, scratching his muzzle absentmindedly. The person she trusted closest of all was also one who delights in tormenting bandits for tidbits of information that may not even concern them in the end. This realization was troubling.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Contrary to Saskia's beliefs, Iorveth had not slept so peacefully that night. Instead, he had occupied himself with thoughts of this "Lily." True, the sorceress may be of no concern to them. But after weathering Eilhart's treachery, Letho's betrayal and Roche's aggression, he resolved to stay cautious. That meant never assuming a potential threat (least of all a sorceress) was of no concern to him.

In between light dozes, he had spent a portion of the night scouring the pages of Eilhart's spellbook for mentions of the word lily, aided by moonlight. He knew the book contained potions and poisons, making little mention of noted magic practitioners. But the bandit Horace seemed to think "Lily" was only an alias…likely not a randomly chosen one. Iorveth wondered if the book would turn up any references to lilies being used in magic spells.

There were a sparse few. He discovered one variety of lilies was used by common witches in air-freshening brews, which were highly sought after by human nobles in times of plague. Another variety of lily had small berries, prized by assassins for their poison. Besides avoiding plague-ridden towns and refusing suspicious offers of food and drink, he learned nothing valuable.

After some time, the camp began to show signs of life. Faye knelt in a circle of stones, waving her hands and muttering some ritual or other. The Scoia'tael were up and about, yet remained aloof as usual. The dwarves woke and expressed their wish for hard cider, only to decide the water and rations on the mule's cart would have to do. Saskia conversed with them, eating and drinking with dark circles under her eyes. Her weariness didn't escape Iorveth.

The humans had not yet stirred. The dwarves ridiculed their lazy arses at first. Then as time went on, the sky brightened and there was still no motion from Tarn, Lionel or the others. Unease began to settle on the camp. Iorveth moved closed to observe what was going on. Zoltan finally ventured towards where the humans were camped to investigate. He hurried back not moments later, followed by Lark.

"Oi, Saskia, we've a problem," Zoltan began. "Count Marco and that Lionel fellow scarpered."

She turned to face them. "They're gone?" she asked, dismayed.

"Aye, took two horses and made off up the trail."

Iorveth began to approach Lark. Before he could ask why she had not seen the humans leave whilst on watch, she spoke up.

"They took the two least wounded while I was on watch," she said. "Tarn told me they were just taking them out to graze in pairs, then they mounted up and never came back."

"Them other humans, after some hemming and hawing, told us that Tarn said something about negotiating with Murivel and 'saving us this whole wild goose chase' to Hengfors," Zoltan recounted. "They said they wouldn't have nothing to do with it, that they honor ye above all else and wouldn't dream of going behind yer back. Only Lionel went along with it. I never did figure that one fer the sharpest blade in the armory. Didn't take much for ol' Tarn to persuade him."

"The sorceress," Iorveth cut in, gaining everyone's attention for the first time. "Tarn means to turn her in for the bounty."

Saskia paused. The shadows of her troubles looked darker, still. "Break camp immediately," she commanded. "We'll follow them, and then I will personally talk sense into our dear Count!"

**(***)**

There were clouds overhead as they set out. The trudge to Murivel was agonizingly slow. The horses hadn't fully recovered from their wounds, and even with a fresh administering of herbs by Faye, they ambled along at a reduced speed. No one dared ask to stop for food, rest or relief. They kept travelling all day, even into the dimly lit night. (The dwarves with mining backgrounds had thought to bring lamps on their expedition, thankfully.) Saskia checked the map, scouring for some landmark to tell them how close they were to the city's gates. The company watched the expanse of darkness ahead of them, hoping that soon Murivel's torches would appear in the distance.

Instead, pillars of smoke appeared.

"Fire!" gasped Faye. As they drew nearer, they saw she was right-Murivel was in ashes. The gate was open—unusual for this late hour—and the smoking remains of the city lay just beyond.

"Shoulda seen this coming," Yarpen remarked. "History proves time and again. Ye start burnin' sorceresses, sooner or later they burn ye back."

"It's quiet…there are no screams," Saskia noted, stopping at the gate. "The smoke is thick and the flames are but embers. This happened hours ago, at least."

Others may have credited her familiarity with fire to her role in the battle ended by Sabrina Glevissig's flames. Iorveth knew better. As always he awaited her command, as did the rest.

"Watch your step entering the town, split up and search," she instructed. "Our goal remains the same: locate Tarn and Lionel. If you find survivors, you should try to help them, but do not compromise us." Her attention turned to the Scoia'tael. "Iorveth, take your ranks and occupy the guard house at the entrance. Watch for trouble, both inside the city and outside. Ring the alarm bell if we're threatened. Ring it in two hours' time, so we may all convene back here."

The skies overhead were still dark and cloudy. "We'll have need of the lamps," he told her.

She looked to Yarpen, who brought them forward. "Use 'em in good health, the lot of ye," he remarked coarsely.

"Dismount, break into pairs and spread out," Saskia ordered. They entered the city in doubles—no two without a weapon bearer—and soon only the Scoia'tael remained outside with the horses.

The guard house just past the front gate had no door; only a stone doorway and steps leading up. Iorveth ascended, Lark and the others close behind. At the top was the alarm bell, and windows facing every direction. There was a scattering of swords propped against the walls, suits of armor and crates of other supplies, but no soldiers to be found. Not even corpses. Shining a lamp onto the street below revealed their own allies searching the rubble, but not a scorched body in sight.

Lark sat on a crate overlooking the south window. "Hey!" She started as it nudged beneath her weight. She stood up and yanked the lid off. "You! You _bloede d'yaebl_!" she swore at the occupant—Count Tarn Marco.

He stood up straight, adjusting his feather hat and smoothing his silk jerkin. "That tone is unbecoming even for your stock," he said. "You must all be confused, but if you'll kindly show me to Lady Saskia, I'll explain everything to her."

"You'll explain to _me,_" Iorveth insisted, shining the lamp directly in Tarn's face. The noble recoiled and tumbled out of the crate. "It had better be the grandest explanation I've yet to hear."

"And if it isn't? Should I concern myself with you embedding your knife in _my _foot?" Tarn challenged, stumbling back up.

"Only if you give me a sound reason. Now be out with it."

"Hengfors is a fool's errand. If only our Lady could see that," Tarn began. "I tried reasoning with her, humoring her, gaining her trust…but the voices of the peasantry and nonhumans echo ever louder in her ears, while my words remain but an echo to her. I had to show her there was a much easier way to provide for our population, right here on this side of the Kestrel Mountains."

"By selling Murivel what they were buying in bulk?" Iorveth guessed. "A sorceress' blood?"

"Me, a petty bounty hunter? Never!" Tarn shook his head. "Murivel is…well, _was _home to a prestigious dwarven bank. Wouldn't it have made much more sense to sell our ore right here, in the agricultural hub that is Redania, and go home within the week, fat with grain?"

"We can't assume Upper Aedirn is on amicable terms with Redania. Worse, with Nilfgaard if the Empire has already occupied this land."

"Get me in a room with the Emperor, and we'd be on amicable terms inside an hour," Tarn boasted.

Off to the side, Lark snorted.

"Not that it matters, now that Murivel is in cinders," Iorveth said. "How did this come to be?"

"The place was already in flames when I arrived with Lionel at dusk. …Yes, I brought him, too. No diplomatic mission should ever be undertaken alone; it's not good for one's public image," Tarn said. "There was hardly a soul in sight, but we heard a child screaming from that alley on the corner, under some rubble." He pointed. "Lionel charged in to help, while I hung back in the guard tower, above the flames and upwind of the smoke. I was waiting here for him to return."

"You opted to wait for your peasant charge in a _crate_?"

"…That was because I heard you coming," Tarn admitted. "I couldn't face Lady Saskia empty-handed. You stabbed a man's foot for much less, if you'll recall."

"I'm not inclined to take your word you speak true," Iorveth said. "How do I know for sure you came here to trade with Murivel, since we still have the wares and the town is destroyed?"

"Easy," Tarn replied. "Lionel was carrying a satchel, containing some samples of the ore. I prepared it to negotiate with Hengfors, but then I thought what if I brought it back to Saskia full of Redanian crop? Surely she'd agree to part with the rest, then. Find Lionel, and you'll see my intentions were pure from the start."

"Fine." Iorveth shone the lamp down the staircase. "You first."

"Beg pardon?"

"You saw where Lionel went last. Lead the way. Then you will explain yourselves to Saskia."

"If you insist," Tarn conceded. Iorveth handed the lamp to Lark, who continued pointing it down the staircase so they could both venture on.

Down in the streets, the rest of the crew had moved on to further parts of the town. Tarn led the way to the collapsed alley where Lionel had rushed in to help a child, or so the former claimed. The lamplight from the guardhouse remained omnisciently on them. There was nothing but splintered fragments of wood in the alley now. A discarded axe lay at its entrance.

"That's Lionel's," Tarn said. "The chap was a woodsman before joining our Lady's rebellion."

Iorveth picked up the axe. "He must have used it to break this child free. Would he have gone in search of medical aid after that?"

"That'd be giving him too much credit. Knowing him, he probably went straight for a fountain or stream to douse the poor thing in."

"Then we keep looking."

The two trudged further into the fallen city. Reluctantly, Tarn turned back to Iorveth. "Know that I would never wish harm on, nor speak ill about Lady Saskia. I acted in her best interest."

"So you say, but you presumed her incompetence and went against her orders," Iorveth retorted. "Consider yourself fortunate that I gave my word not to allow her men to come to harm on this quest. We shall soon see if that indemnity still extends to you. It is her mercy you will appeal to."

"My peers in Aedirn thought me far too liberal, pledging my support for such a radical young woman, of what they called improper birth," said Tarn. "But I say Lady Saskia's ideals are the wave of the future. The world is on the brink of change, with harbingers like her at the helm."

"In that we agree." Iorveth assented. "Search over there." They came upon the nearest water source: a trough for horses. Finding it dry, they moved on.

"…And she is remarkably beautiful," Tarn added. "By human reckoning, at least."

Iorveth longed for an end to the sound of Tarn's voice. "Perhaps that is why the human aristocracy supports her," he remarked.

"I only wish she would realize this and stop postponing the inevitable."

"What do you mean, Count?"

Tarn donned a knowing look. "You elves may be prone forget this—excusable, granted your longevity—but Lady Saskia won't live forever. She is only human, after all."

Iorveth chewed his lip in silence. "…What's your point?" he finally prodded.

"I'll tell you precisely my point. A harmonious realm, a land of tolerance, and so forth…true, she's built a commendable legacy. But what's to become of it, if its founder yields no heir?"

"I don't like where this is going, _dh'oine_."

"But it affects you and yours most of all; you're the ones who will live to see it. Only a successor can guarantee the ongoing stability of the domain. Look no further than the former Temeria, and you'll see what I mean. One day, the Virgin of Aedirn will have to relinquish her firmly-held title and choose a worthy suitor, if she expects the free Pontar Valley to survive her."

"_Worthy_, he says. Do you appoint yourself to judge who is worthy of the Dragonslayer?"

"There'll be no need. It's obvious; one of noble birth is the only option that makes sense for her."

Iorveth imagined how Tarn's incessant jaw might look dislocated, but opted to wait until after Saskia's judgment to find out. "I wonder if she would agree," he said sourly.

"She must, surely. It isn't that your younger peers are entirely without merit…but the young and fertile elves are so pitiably scarce these days. As for the dwarves, when was the last time they set their rigid sights beyond their own unsightly women and crossbred with humans? And then there's the peasantry. Bless her, our Lady meant well when she granted them rights and privileges, but they've been serfs and indentured men for so long, it will be some time before they've adjusted to all the new responsibility set before them. No, the only candidates who could couple with Saskia to produce a strong heir to Upper Aedirn are the noble-born."

Iorveth scowled. "Like you, perhaps?"

"Now, those are _your _words, not mine. I never said I intended to court her. I'm just saying that she'd do well to give adequate thought to how her legacy continues. But I know she won't take my word. I only suggest that since she seems to listen to you—comrades that you clearly are—on your advice she might start looking for one to whom to give her hand."

"Enough of your drivel," Iorveth spat. "How her legacy continues is for her alone to decide. And hear me well, Count: there is no one among us who deserves Saskia's hand." He paused after issuing those words, reflecting on them himself. "…Not you, not anyone," he finished.

Tarn pursed his lips and maintained a welcome silence after that.

They turned a corner and found themselves at the heart of the city, marked by a well. They also found they weren't alone; Faye and Zoltan had their backs to them, leaned in over a huddled figure. Getting closer, Iorveth saw the figure was Lionel. His back was against the well, his knees were drawn up and his shirt was off, wrapped around an unseen bundle in his arms.

"I…I just didn't want her to be alone when she went," the peasant murmured softly. He lowered his arms to reveal what he was holding: a little girl's lifeless body. Her face was burned beyond recognition, but her vacant face appeared human. Her clothing suggested she was an orphan, maybe a street urchin.

"Right decent of ye, lad," Zoltan assured a distraught Lionel. "But have ye seen any other survivors?"

He shook his head.

"Other fallen souls?" Faye asked.

"Only her." Lionel squeezed the bundle in his arms. "She didn't have no one."

"Guess it wasn't sorceresses' work after all," Zoltan said. "Else the streets would be lousy with the dead."

Tarn emerged at Lionel's side and retrieved a satchel seated beside him, draping it on his own shoulder. "Then how does an entire town just burst into flame, and its citizens all vanish without a trace?" he pondered aloud.

"I expect Murivel fell much like the elven palace of Shaerrawedd did," said Iorveth.

"And how is that, exactly?"

The alarm bell started to clang, and all five turned their direction towards the guard tower. "We're in trouble," Faye announced softly.

As though on cue, a black shape began to materialize in the town's square. As if burning a hole between this dimension and another, its ragged edges expanded and then finally convened into a figure the size of an Arachas, though it was not an insect of any kind. It resembled a panther with exaggeratedly large claws and jowls. Its tail was long and whip-like, and it sported leathery wings like a dragon. Its glowing yellow eyes focused on the group by the well, and with a throaty rumble more menacing than a snake's hiss it crouched down, tail twitching, ready to pounce.

"Gods save us!" cried Tarn. He tore in the opposite direction of the beast. A crack split the air, and Tarn fell face-first under the lash of the monster's tail. The satchel spilled open to reveal it did, indeed, contain some of the ore. As the noble crawled desperately on hands and knees, the beast sprang at the others.

With Lionel's axe still in hand, Iorveth hurled it at the creature's open maw. It clattered against bared teeth, and the beast's head jerked to the side. In that moment's delay, Iorveth drew his swords. Faye teleported behind the creature, Zoltan readied his sword, and Lionel stumbled up—setting aside the girl's body—to pick up his axe.

The beast snarled and raised a massive paw to make a strike. From behind, Faye cast a fireball.

It promptly passed right through the monster and ignited Tarn's sleeve instead. Taking no notice of this, the monster swiped at Iorveth. The impact sent him reeling, but if not for the layers of armor he wore the razor claws would have left much more of an impression.

"What?! What are you playing at, witch?!" Tarn hollered, patting the sleeve to put out the flame.

"I...I don't understand," Faye puzzled. "It's a phantom?"

"It can't be that—it just took an axe to the teeth!" said Zoltan, just barely ducking under another whip from its tail. "Lob that thing again, lad!" he barked at Lionel. The peasant reared the axe over his shoulder and swung. This time the axe passed through its target and landed on the ground feet from Faye.

The beast, in turn, snapped at Lionel. Fortunately, he stumbled back in time and the massive teeth only gnawed his boot, which he slid off promptly.

"Pick on someone yer own size, ye shite!" bellowed Zoltan as he made a forceful jab with his sword, this time trying to hit the creature's leg. Alas, his sword too passed through as if its mark was nothing more than vapor. The phantom beast ignored Zoltan's taunts and continued to stalk Lionel as the panicked peasant backed away on all fours. Unwittingly he backed into Tarn, for whom a singed sleeve was about to become a comparatively trivial problem.

By now the rest of Saskia's party had arrived on the scene. Lark and the other Squirrels skirted the edge of the action, bows poised. Iorveth looked at the defenseless Tarn and Lionel. It was due to their carelessness the party was in this predicament to begin with, and it seemed fitting they reap the consequences. Tarn's arrogant words alone earned him a worthy spot on a monster's palate, in Iorveth's mind anyway. But he had promised Saskia that he'd guard her ranks from the elements and from monsters, so long as the safety of the Scoia'tael remained unimpeded. On the sidelines and ready to fire, the Squirrels were in no immediate threat.

He struck at the phantom beast again, if only to draw its attention away from Tarn and Lionel. This time, the sword blow connected with the creature's flank. It snarled and stumbled. So far, he had been the only one whose attacks had any effect. Why? While the beast was recoiling, he issued a follow up strike. This one passed through, and earned him a lash from the beast's tail. So, its susceptibility was not elven rage. What, then?

As he stumbled, three arrows sailed at the menace in procession from the direction of the Scoia'tael. The first went through and struck the well on the other side of the beast. The second went through and pinned into the ground. The third hit the beast's wing. It yowled and flapped furiously, stirring up dust and ash all around them.

Iorveth coughed, his one eye stinging. He thought he knew the phantom beast's weakness now, but he had to confirm his suspicion. "Shoot it again!" he ordered the Scoia'tael.

Three arrows swathed through the beast to no avail. He stabbed its flank, and again it shrieked in disdain. He sprang back to avoid the resultant tail lash. Now he knew.

Zoltan had figured it out, too. "Bloody hell, only one out of four attacks hurts it!" he exclaimed.

"Surround it, men!" Saskia cried out from just beyond the battle. "Watch out for its tail and claws!" She, Yarpen and a handful of others joined the fight, swords and axes raised.

There was danger now of the archers hitting allies. "Aim high! Go for the wings!" Iorveth commanded. The arrows now flew safely over the heads of the close-range combatants.

Even with their full power focused on the phantom beast, only a fourth of their combined strikes did it any harm. The combatants were all armed with only plain steel, making their attacks even weaker against the monster's hide. Already, the damage it dealt with its teeth, claws and tail began to outweigh the damage they dealt it. Zoltan was slowing up after enduring a massive claw swipe, and Iorveth was just becoming aware that the blood stains on him were his own. This direct assault would end in casualties, unless another tactic was found.

Maybe there was a way for the monster's incorporeal nature to be used against it. Iorveth broke away from combat, an idea forming. He retrieved the items he had confiscated from the bandit on the trail: half a dozen caltrops. Immediately after a sword blow from Saskia hit its tangible mark, he used the window of time that the beast was once more intangible to hurl one of the caltrops through its body. The barbed device landed inside the monster's huge, ghostly foot.

The beastly menace became solid again and reared back with an enraged roar, foot bleeding from the spiked object now deeply embedded in it. The trick worked…and it made the phantom beast angry. The town became a whirlwind of dust and ash as it beat its wings and swung its tail wildly, caring not who it hit.

"Call your men off!" Iorveth shouted to Saskia over the commotion. "I will finish this!"

She blocked a tail lash with her shield. "Fall back!" she issued to her men. Then, to Iorveth, "I hope you know what you're doing."

The perimeter around the phantom beast was cleared. Its sights fell on the helpless Lionel and Tarn…the former struggling to fit his mauled boot back on and the latter scrambling to pick up the fallen ore. Both froze when they realized the monster's attention was back on them. It staggered in their direction on three good feet, intent on taking its rage out on them.

Iorveth needed to redirect the thing's aggression on him. He scattered the five remaining caltrops before him and drew his bow. _"Spar'le!" _he called to the Scoia'tael. The first resulting arrow hit—the second two darted on through. The phantom beast turned in their direction.

"Sorceress, a fire spell!" he ordered.

Faye tilted her head. "But it will miss…" she protested.

"Do it!"

Compliantly, she launched a ball of fire at the creature. As she predicted it careened on through, making a total of three misses. Iorveth then shot, his arrow piercing the phantom beast's neck. That was all the provocation it needed, and it started to lumber his way with murder in its smoldering eyes.

It didn't get far before falling victim to one of the other caltrops on the ground, this time in its hind paw. Iorveth backed away, bow still aimed, and the beast doggedly followed. There were smeared red paw prints trailing behind its every step. It trudged weakly, finally succumbing to the loss of blood. It raised its tail feebly, but could not even muster the strength for a last ditch lashing. It collapsed, its feral face mere inches from Iorveth's, and its eyes dimmed into nothing.

When the dust settled, the group gathered around cautiously.

"How the bloody arse fuck did you do that?!" demanded Yarpen.


	7. Chapter 7

[Kraut007, Kat, Jenny-A1, and ivy27: Thanks very much for your support of this story! Sorry it took so long to update...I was busy making some cosplays in time for Halloween.

demisses: I totally agree. I love Iorveth's borderline reverent attitude towards Saskia. You barely ever see them interact one-on-one in the game, so I'm trying to portray how they would talk to each other believably in this story.]

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

The dark skies that had warned of rain all day finally burst, and the downpour snuffed out the remaining embers of the ruined Murivel. Saskia surveyed the aftermath of the fight. Remnants of smoke stirred up around the recouping combatants. Her eyes found their way to Iorveth, battered but adequately intact at the other side of the monstrosity's corpse.

He'd done it. He'd come through for her once more, just like in his grand intervention during the Siege of Vergen, and in helping to restore her free will. He'd upheld his word and defended the team—even the runaway Tarn and Lionel—from a monster's wrath, again calming her fears of more wasted lives. Only this time it had come at a risk to himself.

Saskia noticed Faye standing a fathom away from the elven brigand, inching towards him in concern. "You're bleeding," the sorceress said earnestly.

"Where?" Iorveth asked.

Faye pressed her palm to the left side of her neck in indication. Iorveth mirrored her. "Other side," she corrected, and he shifted to the left side of his neck, his glove coming up red-stained. "You can't feel it?" she asked, her head quirked.

"Probably just a lash from the thing's tail," he replied. "A trifling wound, by my experience."

"I could cast a spell to make it heal faster," she offered.

"There's no need," he retorted. "It will stop in due course."

Dissuaded by his terse response, Faye retreated to examine the body of the phantom beast. While she knelt over it—presumably to pay her respects and to harvest alchemy components—Saskia strode over to Iorveth.

"You did well," she commended. "Your actions may well have saved us needless losses. I should not have doubted for a moment your capability against creatures like this."

"Truth be told, I've never seen anything like it before," he admitted. "But if the caltrops hadn't worked, I would have found another way to lure it from your forces, whatever the cost."

"I can be assured now that my forces will be looked after when we arrive in the mountains tomorrow. And for that I owe you much," she said. Her hand came up to touch his, still pressed against his bleeding neck.

He shifted, but didn't pull away immediately.

"Are you sure the wound isn't serious?" she asked. Then, in haste, she added, "I just want to know that you'll be in reliable condition when we begin our climb."

"I've torn Special Forces units asunder in worse conditions than this," he assured her, taking her by the wrist lightly and, after a moment's reluctance, pulling her hand away. "However, if it will put you at ease, a length of gauze or cloth would help to stem the blood flow."

Saskia dug in her travel pack and found the cloth her cloak had come packaged in when presented to her by the young dwarven child in Vergen. She presented it to Iorveth, who held it in a wad to the lash mark. "What of those two?" he asked, gaze veered towards Tarn and Lionel. The pair was now under the watchful eye of the dwarves.

"I'll see to them. You might draw from the well to wash away the blood," she advised. With that, she turned and approached the two mutinous rogues.

Lionel donned a downcast face, arms covering his bare chest and mauled boot on his foot. He peered over at the corpse of the young girl wrapped in his shirt. Tarn maintained a confident visage, standing straight and tall with the satchel of ore on his shoulder, his hand fumbling with the partially singed sleeve of his jerkin.

"Count Marco," Saskia began sternly. "You have stolen a portion of our quarry and deserted our convoy, unauthorized. Lionel Hix, you stand as an accomplice to the Count. Under Demavend, such actions may have been viewed as treason and met with grave consequences. But I am giving you each a chance. You will have one chance apiece to explain your actions to me. Starting with you, Lionel. Why did you join Tarn in abandoning the caravan?"

Tarn caught himself in mid eye-roll as Lionel looked up sheepishly. "I-I meant no disrespect t' you, Saskia, none at all," the peasant stammered. "Count Marco, he pulled me aside this mornin', sayin' he had a better way t' get food to all Vergen's folks, without havin' to cross a whole mountain range and whatnot. And he demanded tha' I join him."

"Demanded?" Saskia echoed. "He made you act against your will?"

Lionel scratched his neck. "Well, no…" he murmured. "He…talked me into it, you might say. Gave me a reason t' go along wi' it."

"What reason?" she pried. Lionel started to look towards Tarn, but was abruptly stopped by Saskia's command of "Eyes to me, not him!"

He swallowed hard, looking her in the face. "…I got a kid in Aedirn, y'see," he uttered.

She raised her eyebrows. Lionel had been amongst her common-born subjects since the uprising, but never had he mentioned a family in mainland Aedirn, let alone children. The thought of him as a father was…unexpected, to say the least.

"I got a kid in Aedirn," he repeated. "Must be about five years ago now. I worked the forests on a certain baron's land. The baron's daughter and I, we took a liking to each other, and...well, I won't go into all that, Miss. But when the baron found out his daughter was carryin' a common bastard, that didn't sit to well wi' him. He run me off of his land and forced her into an arranged marriage, coverin' up the kid's real roots. Some lord in Aedirn thinks that kid is his. But it's really mine…and I ain't never seen it, never even learned if it was a boy or girl."

"Did Count Marco threaten your child if you wouldn't help him?" Saskia asked.

"No, nothin' like that. The Count said he knows the baron I served in Aedirn. Said he could arrange for my kid to be brought safe to the Pontar Valley," Lionel explained. "That's why I come into your rebellion in the first place, Saskia. A place where highborn and lowborn is equal…in a place like that, I could be free to see my kid. I could say that kid is mine, and pick 'em up and hold 'em without disgracin' their mother. That's why I listened to the Count, Miss. I never meant no insult to you."

Saskia's expression softened for a fleeting moment, but she resumed her stern demeanor as she turned to Tarn. "Is he telling the truth?" she asked the noble.

"I can't be expected to account for his reasons of coming into your service, Lady," he said. "But the rest is most certainly true. I'm well acquainted with the family he served and the scandal he wrought upon their daughter. And it's also true, I did agree to pull some strings so he might visit with the young bastard, if he would grant me his cooperation."

"His cooperation in undermining our mission, in threatening us and all of Upper Aedirn?" Saskia added coolly.

"I implore you to hear my side before you condemn it as such," he said. "Lady Saskia, you are a remarkable leader, bound to usher in a new era. But you must realize, if only in the back of your mind, that this trek to Hengfors can't possibly succeed. Look at my poor horses, for instance. My father put his blood, sweat and tears into raising these animals. They are the very finest pedigree in Aedirn, and they've already been injured once. Now they're to pull a heavy freight over a hazardous mountain range, with no road to travel on, and in a winter climate no less? They'll be hurt severely on the slippery crags. The cargo will be lost to the first snow, and us with it."

Saskia thrust a finger at him. "If this was your fear, you could have told me so directly."

"Forgive me, Milady, but in a way I did," Tarn said. "Shortly after we crossed the Pontar, I suggested that we might spare ourselves the trouble of journeying to the Hengfors League by negotiating commerce with Murivel instead. When I was denied, it seemed best to _show _you the merit in my plan, by bringing back a sampling." He patted the satchel full of ore at his hip.

She glanced off in thought, her thumb and forefinger nestled under her chin. The company stood around her, watching, waiting to see how she'd respond.

"…Perhaps you're right, Tarn" she finally said. "The Hengfors League is far away and difficult to reach. Perhaps, before acting so hastily, I should have considered the views of those in my charge and examined other options."

"You should have?" Tarn blinked. "I mean yes, I should say so, Lady."

"So, then…" Saskia looked around. "With Murivel burned to a husk devoid of merchants with whom to trade, and with the next Redanian town several days away and very likely beset by the Empire, what do you propose as our next move, Count Marco?"

He fell silent, his jaw slack, and for once without words.

"You have our ears, Count," Saskia prodded once more. "If you truly know what is best for Upper Aedirn, how shall we proceed?"

"We could…um…" He chewed his lip, and his Adam's apple quivered in his throat as he searched for a coherent sentence. "There were no bodies in the town, excluding this street urchin." He indicated the dead girl wrapped in Lionel's shirt. "Perhaps the citizens sought refuge somewhere nearby. To start, we could find out where they went."

"And where do you think they went?"

Tarn managed to smile knowingly. "In my modest opinion, I'd say this town went the way of the elven palace of Shehe…Shehera…"

_"Shaerrawedd," _Iorveth finished bitterly. "An elven monument in Kaedwen, destroyed by the Aen Seidhe themselves to prevent human invaders from building on its foundation. Familiarize yourself with our history before you use it to your own ends, Count."

"Right. Shaerrawedd," Tarn echoed. "So, the citizens of Murivel laid waste to their _own _city, as the elves did, to deny its use to…to whom?" He trailed off. "…To Nilfgaard?"

"It happens in war," Zoltan chimed in. "Keeps the enemy from laying claim to a conquered town's resources. Thing is, if these Murivel folks thought old Emhyr was set on addin' their city as a notch to his belt, there's only one place they could have fled."

"The mountains," said Lark.

Tarn turned to her. "But I've seen Lady Saskia's map, and as I established before, there's no path to offer safe passage for a team of horses in the Kestrel Mountain range."

"That map's maker was either human or dwarf, but clearly not an elf," Lark responded. "The Aen Seidhe were herded by humans into the mountains well before any _dh'oine_ put them to paper, so they would know the mountains' secrets better."

"You mean to tell me we are using hidden elven trails, then?"

"Not so hidden anymore," she replied. "The Kestrel Mountains were the territory of my former Scoia'tael unit, which you may have heard were all killed by Special Forces. Now the trails we walked and rode are abandoned, but should still be usable."

Again, he reacted with silence.

"Are you satisfied now?" Saskia asked him. "I've no intention of sending us to an early end amongst the snow-capped peaks. We've considered the risks and prepared as best as possible for them. This is no fool's errand, nor a wild goose chase. Do you see?"

"I see," he assented. "But there is still one flaw that occurs to me. If Murivel was destroyed because Nilfgaardian forces were on the way, then their black shadows could be looming over Vergen any day now. Our sorceress claims she can teleport us back at a moment's notice…but I saw the way she struggled simply to maintain that barrier against the bandits on the forest trail. The strain of moving us all from one point on the land to another must be far more strenuous. Are we certain she can do it?"

"That's a question for her," Saskia remarked, stepping aside to let Faye speak.

"I can do it," the sorceress began, reaching for a pouch fastened to her skirt. "…With these." She emptied the pouch contents into her hand. A mound of lustrous gems gleamed atop her palm.

"I thought you said you needed a rock from Vergen to bring us back," Tarn puzzled.

"That. And these." She allowed the crystals to trickle from one palm into another. The shimmer they boasted even at this dark hour was from no natural light source, but a magical one. "The amount of The Power it will take to bring us home is more than any one mage can conjure at a time. And the further we get from Vergen, the more it will take," she explained. "So every morning, I will perform a ritual to store a little more of The Power in these. That way we will always have enough."

"You sound quite sure," Tarn said. "All my horses, all our supplies and teammates…all will be accounted for by your spell?"

"All of them," Faye declared. "And cats, too."

The statement earned her several skeptical stares.

"Cats are drawn to The Power," she explained. "When I cast the spell to conjure a portal back to Vergen, a stray might jump in and deplete some of The Power. By storing extra, nothing will be left behind."

Tarn had no reply. All eyes were on him, and his were on Saskia. Slowly, he removed the satchel of ore from his arm and extended it to Upper Aedirn's leader. "I acted in haste," he confessed. "You have prepared well for this journey, and barring the unforeseen, you may succeed after all. I shall make no further attempts to obstruct you, Lady Saskia. If you so will it, I shall adhere to the assignment you have allotted to me: negotiating with the officials of Hengfors."

Saskia took the satchel and tucked it under her own arm. "You said yourself I am bound to usher in a new era, Tarn," she replied. "What you must realize is that the era I herald in is to be one of harmony, of cooperation by all people regardless of race or caste. While you may have acted in the best interest of Vergen, you erred by acting alone. Yes, you beguiled Lionel into supporting you, but this decision was solely yours. You assumed you, and no other, knew best. For this, appropriate action will be decided upon by a council when we return to Upper Aedirn. Until then, you are not to leave the sight of this convoy. Whether we move forward, stop to camp or face aggressors, you will remain supervised at all times."

He slouched down in defeated acceptance of this. Saskia turned her attention on Lionel. "As for you," she said, "You've proven your loyalty during the rebellion. Your aid in building our ramparts was invaluable when the Kaedwenis attacked. You are no traitor in my sight…your greatest error was to allow yourself to be to readily led astray."

"I shoulda come to you first," Lionel admitted. "I done you wrong, leading the group into this burning town."

"You clearly realize your mistake, and I see you've been punished enough as it is." She glanced solemnly to the burned corpse of the child Lionel had tried to save. "So this will be your first and only warning. From here on out, you are to stick to the duties for which you volunteered when you joined our convoy. If you're asked to take on any others, you are not to lift a finger until you've contacted me first. If I find out you're acted against the good of the mission again, this time you will be met with consequences befitting a traitor."

"Y-Yes, Saskia. You're too good, Miss," Lionel sputtered. "I won't let you down again, honest."

With only a short nod, Saskia turned and brought her attention to the rest of the party. "I want everyone here to remember what it is we fought for: freedom for _all_ in Upper Aedirn," she declared. "The old ways of the lord and serf have no place in our realm. Men are to be judged by their actions alone—regardless of whether they were born in a castle or a sty, reared in a forest or in the mountains."

She paused and smiled faintly when she was met with murmurs of approval.

"Never forget this as we forge ahead: you are all strong, but together we are _stronger_!" she asserted. "It took the combined might of all of us to repel Henselt. It took the combined knowledge and resources of each among us to make this mountain trek possible. And it will take the combined efforts of everyone to make that possibility into a reality. Do not doubt that to be successful, we must rely on each other…not only on ourselves."

There were a few positive responses, from "Too right!" to "Aye, Saskia!"

"With all this said, there's no time to lose," she added. "If it's true that Murivel's citizens burned their own hometown to deny its use to Nilfgaardian invaders, then the foe could be en route. It's been a difficult day for all of us, but before we can spare a thought for rest, we must press on. We'll have our reprieve a few hours northward, at the base of the Kestrel Mountains." She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, ushering them on towards the town's exit, opposite the gate they had come in. "Let's go!"

On her cue, despite their weariness and wounds, everyone ambled on. There was no looking back…save for Lionel, who broke away from the procession one final time to kneel at the perished girl's side. He reclaimed the shirt he'd wrapped her in, and with all the reverence of a temple priest he folded her small hands on her chest and dragged her eyes shut.

Saskia looked on and made no objections.


End file.
